


Ritual (13): Gratitude

by mystery_sock (terebi_me)



Series: Ritual [12]
Category: Heroes (TV 2006)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brotherly Affection, Bullying, Canon Rewrite, Class Issues, Consensual Kink, Daddy Issues, Dinner Party, Dom/sub Play, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Family Secrets, Heidi is awesome, Heroes Big Boom, Heroes: Volume 1, Humor, Intimacy, Low Blood Sugar, M/M, Memories, Mommy Issues, Nathan is a jerk, New York City, Nonverbal Communication, Oral Sex, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Painful Sex, Painplay, Peter is Not Impressed, Petrellicest, Power Imbalance, Privilege, Role Reversal, Rough Sex, Sexual Roleplay, Sibling Incest, Spanking, Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving Dinner, Woobie, Zoo, maddening lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 13:03:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21209000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terebi_me/pseuds/mystery_sock
Summary: Pre-season 1: During the Thanksgiving holiday, Peter and Nathan struggle to communicate with each other. Their tangled web of fear, desire, and love threatens to tear them apart, but instead holds the key to keeping them together.





	Ritual (13): Gratitude

**Author's Note:**

> Above all, this post is dedicated to the memory of Robert Forster, a brief but memorable role as Arthur Petrelli, who, in so many ways, is at the heart of all of this drama. R.I.P., gentle soul.
> 
> [original note] Originally posted for LJ's Heroes Big Boom Challenge (2007). Thanks to my betas, indyhat and 47_trek_47. Couldn't have done it without you... also, thank you to everyone who has given me positive feedback over the last several months - you have encouraged and helped me to become a better writer, and it has been a pleasure to entertain you and learn from you.
> 
> [newer note] Lightly edited.

_TEN MONTHS BEFORE THE ECLIPSE (November 2004)_  
  
The Petrellis _did_ holidays.  
  
Every Thanksgiving and Christmas, all of the immediate family converged at the house on the Upper West Side, and did things together as a family – dinners, parties at the homes of friends, outings to the theater, and the like – for five or six days at Thanksgiving, and usually the nine days surrounding Christmas and New Year's Day.  
  
Once upon a time, when he was little, it had been Peter's favorite time of year. Presents and chocolates and lights, and everyone together – and Nathan would be there, and that was really all that mattered. Nathan made Ma and Dad so happy, and it was nice to have him as the center of attention, not to mention the fact that it was Nathan, and Nathan made everything better. A day without Nathan was like a day without sunshine, and Peter had spent so much of his childhood under dark and gloomy skies.  
  
But as Peter grew up, and was able to better understand the adult interactions that he witnessed, he found it harder and harder to enjoy himself at the holidays. Sometimes he didn't want to be trapped into being around his parents almost 24 hours a day, for days at a time, doing whatever they wanted to do. They never asked Peter what he wanted.  
  
Not that he knew exactly what that was... nothing he could tell anybody about, anyway.  
  
For a couple of pleasant childhood years, Nathan and Peter would break away for an afternoon and go do something on their own that was more fun – the zoo, a movie, playing catch in the park while Ma wrapped presents – but by the time Peter was sixteen, Nathan seemed to prefer staying home with Dad and Ma, talking about boring grownup stuff like politics and lawyer gossip. If Peter tried to join in the conversation, they would cut him down and shut him up. He spent as much time as he could alone in his room playing video games, reading books or comics, or just thinking. (Masturbating was out of the question; his sainted mother Angela Petrelli seemed to have a sixth sense about it and always barged in when he wanted to have some "alone time" at the holidays, which just added to his frustration.) And if Peter tried to leave, Ma would make him "participate," which took the form of having him sit there while she and Dad grilled him about every little thing he was doing, then being dismissive of whatever he said. Of course. And Nathan would just shrug at him, as if to say, You have to admit, you're pretty lame, dude.  
  
The whole concept of "the holidays" was an artificial construct, and Peter felt like he was the only one who noticed how fake it all was.  
  
Peter hoped that the holidays would get better once he graduated from high school. But they didn't, really.  
  
He hoped that he'd get some more respect once he moved out, and started looking after his own money and his own school. That idea was a wash-out, too.  
  
He hoped (desperately) that things would get better once Nathan got married. They did, a little bit, for a while. Nathan's wife, Heidi, was ferociously smart and self-assured, and she held her own, coming in to this close-knit family. But sometimes even she got intimidated and a little lost. And Peter was someone non-threatening and open-minded she could talk to. Well... at first, she needed their conversations, and it was nice for Peter to feel like he had an ally in the house. Once Simon was born, though, that was that. She lost interest in standing up for Peter; if she felt tense, she could just pay attention to her baby, and no one could possibly fault her for doing that. It was a very "family" thing to do.  
  
And Peter just sat by the fireplace, not listening, thinking about other places, other things to do and be.  
  
Thinking about how he could get Nathan alone for a moment, wondering if Nathan would be willing, or if he'd just be a jerk for the pleasure of self-denial, self-discipline; the pleasure of believing himself to be in control.  
  
That was all right with Peter; smashing Nathan's illusions to pieces gave Peter quite a bit of pleasure, too.  
  
Peter was a Petrelli, after all.  
  
  
  
  
  
WEDNESDAY.  
  
Peter stood in the kitchen of his apartment, drinking the potato-leek soup made by the weird vegan Montessori teacher who lived at the end of the hall, which she gave to her neighbors for free because she always made too much. Most of the other neighbors wouldn't touch it, but Peter was desperate. For days, Peter had been living on the stuff, and he was sick to death of it; he had just barely enough money to cover his electric bill this month, and his refrigerator was empty of all but some packets of Chinese mustard. But that was life, sometimes. Not everybody had enough money to pay for everything they needed, and at least he had a warm place to sleep, and something to eat, even if it was about as appetizing as wallpaper paste. Living on his own in Manhattan, even if his rent was being paid by someone else, was almost impossible on what he made.  
  
But he was making it. Badly, sure; clumsily, at times painfully, but he was making it.  
  
He rummaged around in a cupboard and shook some lemon pepper into the soup. His cellphone rang, startling him and causing him to dump in about three times as much lemon pepper as he'd meant to use. Peter set down the bowl and picked up the phone, scowling at the speckled mess, knowing that he had no choice but to eat it anyway. "This is Peter," he answered heavily.  
  
"Aw, cheer up. It's almost Thanksgiving."  
  
"Hey, Nathan," Peter replied, sadly stirring the soup. "I just wrecked my dinner."  
  
Nathan made a sympathetic tutting sound. "Awww. Let me take you out and get you something."  
  
"There isn't time," Peter said. "I gotta be at work in an hour and a half. You're at home, right?"  
  
"No, I'm still at the office. I was just leaving. Let me at least take you out and get you a hot dog or something."  
  
"A hot dog? I'm a vegetarian, Nathan."  
  
"Seriously. Come downstairs, and I'll meet you at your door. I'll get you something you can eat on the way. No arguments, Pete."  
  
"Okay, whatever," said Peter, hanging up, but breathing a sigh of relief. He took an experimental sip of the soup – it was even worse than before, however lemony and peppery – before pouring it out. He hadn't bothered to take off his boots and scarf after getting home from class, so all he needed was his coat, stocking cap, and his messenger bag, and he was ready.  
  
He only had to wait a few minutes before Nathan screeched to a stop in the middle of the street, across a line of parked cars, immediately bringing an angry chorus of car horns from the vehicles suddenly stuck behind him. Peter hustled over a ridge of dirty, half-frozen plowed snow, and slid into the passenger seat. "Hey, thanks," he said, pressed back into his seat by Nathan's abrupt acceleration, only to be jerked forward as Nathan stopped at a red light, and tossed around some more as the car turned a corner. Nathan's driving only seemed reckless; he had extensive defensive-driving skills and superb reflexes, and he drove for pleasure, not out of necessity.  
  
"Whaddya want to eat?" Nathan asked calmly.  
  
"I can get a slice at this place that's right around the corner from work – you can just drop me there. I know you don't want to actually drive up to my work – somebody might see you," Peter teased.  
  
In the driver's seat, Nathan made a face like he could smell the huddled masses just by thinking about them. "You're still at the East Lang Center?" he asked with thinly veiled distaste.  
  
"Yeah, I'd have told you if I switched jobs."  
  
"They still got you on delousing duty?"  
  
Peter hesitated for a moment, controlling a quick spark of anger before replying. "We don't bathe people, Nathan; they can usually do it themselves. If they can't, most of the time they don't make it to a shelter; they tend to just die in the streets."  
  
"Or stand next to me on the sidewalk." Nathan shook his head dubiously. "Well, what exactly do you do there again?"  
  
Peter sighed; he'd had to explain this about ten times since he'd started working at the shelter. "I greet the residents as they come in, get their name and place of origin, outside contact info, and any medical information, and tell I them the score. And then I have a bunch of maintenance, kitchen work, and paperwork to do, too, but I end up spending a lot of time just talking to the guys. Almost all of them are really grateful to me for talking to them like they're human beings – when you're homeless, you don't get a lot of that."  
  
"I can't imagine why."  
  
"They only get two nights," Peter said, staring out the side window; the snow had started to fall again, in tiny, frozen, icy bits instead of flakes. "Can you even believe that? In this kinda weather. I see the same guys over and over again, and once they stay five times, they can't come back until the end of the season. Like anybody's going to be homeless for just ten days. Almost nobody's that lucky, not at East Lang. Tonight, I'm sure I'm going to have to send a couple dozen guys away, and hope they didn't already fill their quota at the Spelling, or the New Methodist, because otherwise, if they want a warm place to sleep, it's best to try to get arrested. Not too hard to do; just take a dump on the subway platform, or snatch somebody's purse, and hope you don't get maced or shot. Your tax dollars at work, Nathan. Did you know it used to be a three-day limit, but the city voted to cut that to give tax breaks to people like Dad? And that Spelling is starting to turn men away, because they have so many women, and so many little kids?"  
  
"So are you coming for dinner tomorrow night?" Nathan said, as though Peter had just been talking about something he saw on TV. "It's the big kick-off. We're having dinner at home, and then drinks and late supper at the Coopers'."  
  
Peter had been about to launch into his usual tirade about Nathan's thoughtlessness, but instead he laughed and put his hand to his forehead. "The Coopers," he echoed, his mind now somewhere else entirely. "Oh, man. I wonder if they still have that bathroom."  
  
"I'm pretty sure they do."  
  
"Do you remember?" Peter asked, his voice suddenly childlike, playful, vulnerable. Like a melody – three words that encapsulated so much longing, such profound sensations. The touch, the taste, the kiss, the sight, the violation, the promise. Open me... hold me... trust me. With us forever, no matter what.  
  
"Of course I remember," Nathan replied dryly. "Anyway, Ma says to be home at five."  
  
Peter, snapped out of his sensual nostalgia, suddenly frowned and shook his head. "I can't," he said. "I've got to work. It's a really heavy time of year."  
  
"You don't have the night off?" Nathan said incredulously. "It's Thanksgiving. It's a federal holiday."  
  
"No," Peter replied, with a confused and hurt tone. "What would you think if they closed the hospitals on the holidays? Anyway, you guys can do without me this year."  
  
"It's not about that, Peter."  
  
"You can do without me," Peter insisted, raising his voice. "I'd just sit there, anyway, waiting to..." A laugh broke his sentence. "Get you alone for a second."  
  
Nathan frowned. "I'm telling you, it's not about that. Ma would flip. You can't miss Thanksgiving dinner, especially since we're invited guests. All of us are. You know how that would look?"  
  
"Like I'm fucking working for a living. Is that so fucking wrong? I need the money, okay?"  
  
"Stop cussing so fucking much, Pete. Do you talk like that at work? Look, I'll pay you whatever wages you're missing; it can't be that much. Because you have to be there for this whole weekend. Seriously."  
  
Peter threw his head back and stared at the ceiling of the car, taking a deep breath. "Look, people need me. These guys have no one else."  
  
"You've got co-workers. Get someone to cover for you. Call in sick if you need to, but you'd better show up to dinner tomorrow night. And you'd better be clean-shaven, too, and get a haircut if you've got time. You should wear your Prada suit; you look good in that. It still fits, doesn't it?"  
  
Truthfully, the suit didn't fit all that well anymore, even though it had been tailored, since Peter had lost so much weight in the last year, courtesy of his irregular eating schedule. Peter sighed. "Maybe I just don't want to go. I hate the Coopers."  
  
"Have you ever considered the fact that it's not about whether or not you want to go?" Nathan asked. "This is family, Peter. I hate the Coopers, too, but... they're friends of Dad's."  
  
"Because he makes sure they can keep laundering money," Peter replied, shaking his head.  
  
It was Nathan's turn to sigh. "They have a shell company; it's not money-laundering, Peter."  
  
"No, it's semantics."  
  
"Do you even know what that means?" Nathan said, his standard response whenever Peter used a word that impressed him.  
  
As usual, Peter was irritated by it. "Nathan, I'm twenty-five. I've been to college, okay? I took women's studies. I know what 'semantics' means. Do I ever. I wrote a paper on the semantics of the term 'chick,' for God's sake."  
  
Nathan almost smiled. He hadn't looked at Peter once on the whole drive, keeping his eyes on the road as he drove fast through the snowy, icy downtown streets with easy grace and total confidence. "Just show up, and grin and bear it, Peter. When Mom and Dad are gone, you'll be glad you spent time with them. It's not about what you want; it's about what's important. Please. Please, okay. I'm begging."  
  
"Begging, huh," Peter echoed softly, chuckling, his voice now quiet and intimate. Thinking about something else yet again. "Supper at the Coopers'. Crap. I'm gonna have to get really drunk to deal with that."  
  
"That's okay; just keep a martini glass in your mouth, and smile and nod. That's all anybody expects. You might just pleasantly surprise Dad if you take that tactic. There'll be a lot of other families there, too. I'm sure at least one of them has a hot daughter your age; you never know. You might get lucky."  
  
Nathan had pulled to a stop outside a tiny, hole-in-the-wall pizzeria, its blue-and-red neon OPEN sign a bright light in an otherwise grim, half-boarded-over building façade; and when he turned to Peter, the soft two-color glow played along the smooth, elegant angles of Nathan's face, illuminating his deep, dark eyes. Without even thinking of what he was doing, Peter reached out his hand and traced the bow-like curve of Nathan's upper lip. "Will you find me?" Peter whispered.  
  
Nathan took Peter's hand and kissed the caressing fingertips, then held Peter's hand to his chin and gazed at Peter from under his long eyelashes. He looked so ridiculously beautiful that it nearly took Peter's breath away. "There probably won't be time, Peter," Nathan said, his voice pinched with regret. "Too many people there." Peter pulled his hand back, smiled nervously, and tucked the trailing edge of his hair behind his ear. Nathan insisted, "Pete... okay? Five o'clock?"  
  
"Do you love me for real?" Peter asked, not looking at his brother.  
  
"Yeah," Nathan replied, nodding. "Yeah. For real."  
  
"If there's a hot babe there, could you... please send her to me when you're done with her?" He looked up, and gave Nathan a crooked, uncertain smile.  
  
Nathan laughed gently, squeezing Peter's shoulder with his fingers, then patting him. "Five o'clock, Peter. Be on time. And get your hair cut, okay?" He reached into his wallet, and flicked Peter a twenty-dollar bill. "Go get your slice. And just think... Thanksgiving dinner. Looks like you could use it; you're way too skinny."  
  
"I won't eat all day, I can guarantee you that," Peter replied, picking up the twenty and realizing that he could buy three or four slices, with it, five if they were plain cheese. At least he wouldn't go hungry tonight. He pocketed the money, then leaned over and kissed Nathan quickly on the lips. "Thanks."  
  
"Wear that green knitted silk tie Mom got you for your birthday – it really brings out your eyes."  
  
"All right, Queer Eye." Peter opened the door and slid out onto the sidewalk. He grinned, feeling optimistic for a change.  
  
"Don't ever call me that in public." Nathan got in the last word, slammed the door behind Peter, and sped off in a burst of kicked-up slush that soaked the legs of Peter's jeans, and dampened his optimism along with them.  
  
As if that weren't bad enough, the price of a slice of pizza had gone up to $4.50 since Peter had last been in a few weeks ago. Peter sat alone at the counter with one cheese slice, one veggie combo slice, and a watery Coke, feeling the knowledge sink into him that he'd just been manipulated. Again. And now he had to go in to work and tell his supervisor that he couldn't work what promised to be one of the heaviest intake nights of the year, because his Mommy wanted him to come to Thanksgiving dinner. It was so painfully bourgeois that it ruined Peter's appetite, and he took his cheese slice in to work and gave it to the first homeless guy he saw.  
  
  
  
  
  
THURSDAY.  
  
"Peter, you're late."  
  
Peter slid quickly into his chair at the table, set with what was, in Angela Petrelli's mind, a light dinner – about ten different plates of crepes, cheeses, olives, bread, onion soup, and pastries, with the requisite elegant centrepiece of fresh flowers and beeswax candles. "Well, the 6 line was late because of the snow... plus holiday schedule... so it's kind of amazing that I got here this early." Peter sneaked a glance at his cell phone; it was six minutes after five. He gave a pained smile. The usual. Being anything more than five minutes late invited commentary.  
  
Peter's mother waved her hand dismissively. "You shouldn't bother with the subway when the weather's like this. You should have just gotten a taxi–"  
  
"I'm flat broke, Ma."  
  
Peter's father Arthur rolled his eyes and sighed. Angela sounded hurt. "I'd have covered it; you know that."  
  
Peter shook his head and stared at the table. "Anyway, I'm here."  
  
"It's nice to see you, Peter," said Heidi, smiling at him.  
  
"Thank you," Peter replied, knowing that he sounded bitchy, and not caring. He smiled back at Heidi. "It's nice to see you, too. Where're Simon and Monty?"  
  
"They're at home, with Mandy," Heidi explained. "Simon has a cold. They'll be here tomorrow."  
  
"No way can they escape that," Peter said under his breath.  
  
"Shall we say Grace, then?" Angela said, in a loud, cheerful voice, as if to drown out the lingering rasp of Peter's voice. Everyone sat up straight, and, almost as one gesture, linked their fingers together in front of them on the table. This was the only time of year that Angela showed even a flicker of religious sentiment, but Grace before meals was part of their holiday tradition, started before Peter was born, probably for the purpose of impressing some long-forgotten visitor. Fucking fake-ass holidays, Peter thought, even that pretty little religious gesture making him bitter. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing out his tension, trying to relax and just accept the Now, then opened them again as Angela began the brief prayer.  
  
Everyone had their eyes closed, except Nathan.  
  
Nathan's eyes were focused intently on Peter.  
  
"Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts..."  
  
Peter and Nathan watched each other across the table, breathing in sync, for a brief moment all defenses gone. Peter cocked his head slightly and glanced down at Nathan's mouth, then back to his eyes, asking a subtle and complex question. Nathan knitted his brow just a fraction, his eyes going soft and sad. Then, looking back fully into Peter's eyes, he seemed to draw from an internal well of strength and determination, squaring his shoulders and giving a subtle nod. Peter smiled, feeling that they shared the same thought, that they were supernaturally intertwined.  
  
I am here, and I see you, oh yes, and I know what you're thinking, because I'm thinking it too, I know what you're feeling... me too... for this moment, we are the only two people in this room, the only two people in the world, right now it's just you and me, and only we could ever understand. Our secret, our beautiful, horrible secret.  
  
"Amen."  
  
"Amen," came the answering chorus. Nathan immediately broke the gaze and busied himself with his place setting. Peter looked rapidly around the table. His parents and Heidi opened their eyes, shattering the moment of quiet and calm and connectedness, yanking Peter back into this unpleasant "reality" where he was alone, he couldn't read minds, and Nathan was all the way across the table and didn't want him, not really, not right now. Nathan shook out his napkin into his lap, and the maid appeared out of nowhere and began pouring wine into their glasses.  
  
It was like the moment had never happened. At times like this, Peter wondered whether he was actually delusional, and he was dreaming up all of this, and nothing he had experienced privately with Nathan had ever been real. How could it be?  
  
But it had to be. Peter was a Petrelli, and he knew he wasn't crazy. Well, a little crazy, maybe – but not wrong.  
  
"Thank you, Augustine, that will be all for now. Serve yourselves as you like," their mother said. "The Coopers will be having a full catered buffet, so you just need something to keep your strength up till then."  
  
"What's in the crepes?" Peter asked.  
  
"They are prosciutto and morel, and masala chicken with apple chutney."  
  
"So..." Peter said, then didn't continue; frowning, he got up and put some cheese, bread, and olives on his plate.  
  
"What is it, Peter?" his mother asked, laughing faintly in genuine confusion.  
  
"He's a vegetarian," Nathan said with distaste, sliding a few crepes onto a plate and handing it to Heidi. She thanked him prettily and smiled.  
  
Angela gave an aggrieved sigh. "Oh, that's right... I'm so sorry; I completely forgot. There've just been so many other things on my mind this year–" To Peter's ears, she sounded more annoyed than apologetic.  
  
"You managed to completely forget something that's been a fact for years?" Peter said. "For something that's supposed to be this huge deal? That's not like you, Ma. You got it right last year, somehow. Who's on your list to impress this year?"  
  
"Hey, cut it out. You're giving me indigestion before I even have a chance to eat," his father interrupted. "Peter, please just save it, okay? Forgive your mother for not bending over backwards to remember every tiny detail of your lifestyle. If you don't want it, don't eat it. If you had bothered to call your mother yesterday, you could have told her to have Overton make you something vegetarian. You've got plenty to eat right there; I suggest you eat it."  
  
"How are the cases treating you, Dad?" Nathan segued in effortlessly, without missing a beat, as if just continuing on with the conversation already in progress. Heidi gazed at Nathan with open affection and respect, as though she would have liked nothing better than to kiss him for being so wonderful, and Angela daintily took one of the prosciutto crepes onto her plate and ladled up a cup of soup. Peter sullenly made little sandwiches with cheese and bread, and washed them down with gulps of wine.  
  
Just drink. Just drink.  
  
"...And how is work treating you, Peter?"  
  
"What?" Peter zoned back in, hurriedly swallowing his mouthful of bread and sipping his water.  
  
Heidi smiled brightly and patiently at him. "How is work treating you?" she asked him again. "You work at a downtown homeless shelter, right? I think that's very admirable. I think that's part of civic duty." She looked at Nathan. "Don't you think so, honey?"  
  
"It's a very rough job," Nathan offered.  
  
"She wasn't asking your opinion, Nathan," Peter replied, giving Nathan a pointed look. He turned back to Heidi and tried not to look at his parents, who were watching with sudden interest. "It's treating me... okay," Peter continued. "I agree with you. I think it is important."  
  
"She didn't say it was important, Pete," Nathan broke in. "She said it was admirable."  
  
Peter just stared at him for a moment, and then looked at Nathan's wine glass. It was untouched – so he wasn't being nasty because he was drunk. There was something else going on. Peter's mind spun, trying to keep his bearings while he figured out what it was. "It really is a very hard job, even though there's nothing really to it. There's something about... seeing all those people come in, and hearing their stories, and giving them... something. It's inadequate. Trying to give them as much as we can, even if we don't have a lot. Wishing we could... y'know... give some more. Get some more people in there. It's really cold outside."  
  
Heidi nodded in agreement. "I'm sure it's very difficult."  
  
"It's the wrong job for somebody like you," said his father.  
  
"What?" Peter said, stunned.  
  
"He's right, Peter," Angela added, looking up at him through the candles. "You're too sensitive for a place like that."  
  
"I've been doing it for three months," Peter said, his voice going quieter. He just couldn't find the words to express how he felt, what he'd seen. He knew he sounded weak and vague. "It's fine. I can handle it. It's part of my school, kind of. I see a lot of... sick and injured people... under a lot of... really severe conditions..." His voice finally trailed away into nothing.  
  
"Nursing school," said Arthur, sighing and shaking his head. "I suppose."  
  
"Fuck you," Peter whispered.  
  
"Peter." Angela spoke with quiet menace. "Don't speak to your father that way."  
  
"Sorry, Dad, I'm sure you've never heard anything that crude before in your life."  
  
"Peter! Do you need to go outside?" Angela demanded.  
  
Peter laughed soundlessly, shrugged, and took another swallow of his wine. "No," he said after a long pause, and then speaking in an exaggeratedly stupid voice, "no, I don't need to go outside; I'm housebroken." His face burned red with anger and embarrassment, ashamed that he'd risen to Nathan's bait so easily. "Sorry. I just have low blood sugar right now, is all."  
  
"Well, eat!" Arthur said, grunting impatiently. "Low blood sugar. Low 'respect and common sense' is more like it."  
  
"It is admirable that you're doing something about the city's homeless problem, Peter," his mother interrupted in a much gentler tone of voice. "I just don't think you have to stay in the same position there if you don't want to. You could easily be working in a city council office, working with the city on increasing funding for your projects. It's very Horatio Alger of you to want to start from the bottom and work your way up, but you're twenty-five years old; it's time you did better for yourself."  
  
"I don't want to work in a city council office," Peter said. "If I wanted to, I'm sure I could have gotten a job there. But I'm in school during the day, and most of the weekend; the hours don't work. East Lang's better than working at Starbucks. Sure, it's hard, but that's okay. At least I'm helping people. I just... want to help."  
  
"Of course you do," Angela said comfortingly. "That's my good boy. You always  
want to do the right thing."  
  
"Thanks, Ma."  
  
"I just don't think this is the way to go about it," said Nathan.  
  
Peter snapped, "Yeah, but who else is going to do it?"  
  
"Somebody else. Peter, have you even asked for a promotion?" Nathan asked.  
  
"I've only been there three months!"  
  
"I asked for a promotion at my job after three months," Nathan pointed out, "and I got it. You've gotta ask for what you want. At the very least."  
  
"Sometimes I do," Peter said, quiet again, letting his eyes lose focus until the candle flames merged into a bright, dancing blur, a curtain of fire between him and his brother. "That doesn't mean I get it."  
  
Nathan seemed unaffected by the softening of Peter's voice. "That doesn't mean that you shouldn't ask. And keep asking. And if you're told 'no'... figure out a way around it." He looked calm and smug and wickedly handsome, thoroughly enjoying himself.  
  
"I think I know exactly what you mean," Peter replied, focusing and narrowing his eyes. He shook his head, glaring at Nathan. "And I think maybe none of you are actually listening to what I'm saying."  
  
"He doesn't want a promotion, Nathan, leave him alone," Angela cut in. "Can we please behave ourselves? You're an awful bully sometimes. Be nice to your brother. It's the holidays. Now. The Coopers are also celebrating a new boat they just got, down in Miami. I'm sure there'll be photographs, so prepare yourselves. But I sneaked a glance at the guest list, and there'll be quite a few notables there, including some people you don't yet know, Nathan, but you should..."  
  
Peter sat silent for a while, drinking wine and eating bread and olives, only half listening to his mother listing off the names of prominent families. He excused himself with a few tell-tale glances toward the kitchen, through which a restroom was located. No one watched him as he left, and he took the opportunity to turn instead into the front room, heading for the winding staircase.  
  
His bedroom had been completely re-done when he left, as had Nathan's, and was now just another spare bedroom, every detail immaculate and untouched like something out of a catalog. It was creepy to see the same dimensions, but to have every other thing about the room changed. He sat on the floor next to the bed and sighed, wondering how he was going to get through the next few days if his composure was breaking so badly already. He found it easier to breathe, now that he was out of the dining room, away from the smothering combination of Maa's energy and Dad's energy and Nathan's energy, and Heidi just smiling and watching it all go on without turning a hair... She was more one of them than Peter was.  
  
"Pete."  
  
Nathan stood in the doorway. Peter looked up, then dropped his eyes and shook his head again, sighing impatiently. "What?"  
  
"Were you planning on... coming back downstairs?" Nathan asked.  
  
"What, are they asking for me?"  
  
"No," Nathan said. "I just figured I'd go look for you before they did."  
  
"Of course they weren't asking for me... because why would they?"  
  
"Peter, come on. Don't sulk. You have to get over that tendency."  
  
"I'm not sulking," Peter replied, "I'm saving my sanity. You people exist to fuck with my head."  
  
"That's right, Peter," Nathan said with mock-patience. "The whole world is about you."  
  
Peter held out his hands. "Look, I just want to make a difference. Why are you riding me about it?"  
  
"The job is wrong for you. Look at what it's done to you – you're on edge like I've almost never seen you before. If working there was right, you wouldn't feel the need to justify it so constantly... and you wouldn't have lost twenty pounds."  
  
"It's only ten. I needed to lose it, anyway."  
  
"What, so we could see through you? C'mon." Nathan held out his hand to Peter, and Peter stood up, but without Nathan's help. "I just want you to be okay. We all just want you to be okay; we love you."  
  
"Then let me do what I'm doing, would you? Look, I'm not crazy about the fact that you're a lawyer, but I wouldn't ask you not to do it."  
  
"What's the matter with being a lawyer? Don't tell me you're one of those people. That's called prejudice, and in principle, I think you're supposed to be opposed to that."  
  
"Nathan, I'm serious." Peter stared pleadingly into his brother's eyes. "Leave it alone."  
  
"Do you promise to keep your mouth shut about it tonight? Maybe just talk about the bowl games? You did watch the games, didn't you?" Nathan asked.  
  
"I don't have a TV," Peter confessed. "I did listen to Detroit/Indianapolis on the radio this afternoon, but I was studying and getting ready, so I probably missed some details."  
  
"Well, you can get filled in on it tonight, I'm sure."  
  
"That'd be great, if I cared. Fuck the Colts. Look – I don't need your protection. And no, this is not a negotiating session. We are not engaged in trade. You – stay out of it." Peter offered him a tight smile. "That's it. My life. Mine. Do you get it?"  
  
Nathan stood silent for a moment, arching his eyebrow, then blinked innocently, as if wondering what the big deal was. "Just come back downstairs. I won't talk about it anymore," Nathan said. "You heard what I had to say."  
  
"Yeah, you cornered me. Real compassionate." Peter just stared at him for a moment. "Are you mad at me about something?"  
  
Nathan sighed. "I'm frustrated with you, that's all. I'm frustrated about you. I don't know what to do about you."  
  
"Don't do anything," Peter replied, walking out of the bedroom. He leaned in close to Nathan, and said in an angry whisper, "I'm not a child, and I'm not your toy. Quit playing with me. You want to actually talk with me, instead of at me, I'll be around. Now go sit next to your adoring wife."  
  
Nathan stood at the top of the stairs, took a deep breath, and watched Peter go before he followed.  
  


* * *

_THANKSGIVING NIGHT…_  
  
The Coopers' home was slightly less ostentatious than the last time Nathan had seen it, almost ten years ago; despite their best efforts and those of his father, the Coopers hadn't been able to hang onto more than a fraction of their questionably-obtained money. The mass of antiques had largely been sold and replaced with simpler, clean-styled, cheaper European furnishings, but the Coopers still occupied a five-story townhouse in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the world, and were throwing a lavish Thanksgiving Day dinner party for a hundred guests.  
  
Nathan wasn't about to feel sorry for them. The fine they'd paid for tax evasion was fairly steep, but it wasn't like they'd ended up on the street, thanks largely to the legal expertise of Mr. Arthur Petrelli. The Coopers herded Nathan into a media room and made him look at slides of their vacation in the Florida Keys with their new yacht (written off as a business expense, Mr. Cooper crowed triumphantly) before they'd let him get a drink.  
  
Not that Nathan was all about the alcohol tonight; he mostly wanted a cocktail glass to use as a prop so that no one would ask him why he didn't have a drink. He and Heidi walked around in his mother's shadow for a while, being introduced to a dozen people whose names, faces, and characteristics he carefully memorized and filed away in his brain for future use. Angela suddenly stopped and stared through the crowd at someone Nathan couldn't see. "I'll be back, dear," she said tensely, slipping away and disappearing between the milling bodies in the main  
parlor.  
  
Heidi watched her leave, then turned to Nathan with her eyebrows raised. "Happy holidays... and good luck remembering all that," she smiled, clinking his glass with hers. "Are you all right? You haven't touched your scotch. Don't tell me you don't like it anymore."  
  
"You know I'd never tell you that," Nathan said. He smiled back at her, and sipped his drink. All the ice had melted, and now he just had a glass of chilly Macallan and water. It wasn't a very good combination. "I should get a new one. I'll be right back, sweetheart. You just stay here by the fire; stay warm." He kissed her on the forehead.  
  
Heidi beamed up at him and squeezed his arm. "Oh, I'm warm enough, thank you. Actually, I think I'll call Mandy," she decided. "Check up on the kids. I know it's hard to get Monty to sleep sometimes."  
  
"Good idea. How 'bout I meet you back over here by the fireplace."  
  
"Done deal," she said, and wound her way along the wall away from him.  
  
Nathan slowly meandered through the party toward the bar, greeting people he knew and trading season's greetings. Nathan knew a substantial portion of the guests; a lot of them were lawyers, and ran in the same circles as his father. Nathan lost track of time in the barrage of superficial communication and earnestly festive faces. He felt disconnected from everything around him, but not unpleasantly so; he had the sensation of drifting through the crowd, observing, listening, all his senses finely honed. Searching for something that wasn't a cocktail.  
  
Where was Peter? Nathan had lost him as soon as they'd come inside. Peter ducked out of saying hello to the Coopers and disappeared. He could have been anywhere. Nathan hoped to God that Peter hadn't just bailed entirely; he didn't look forward to explaining that to Mom and Dad.  
  
Maybe Peter had gone off to see if the Coopers' basement-level bathroom was indeed still intact, and spend some time in ecstatic memories. Nathan felt agitated. He didn't want Peter going there without him; if Peter was going to go down there, Nathan wanted to be there, too.  
  
Everything dreamlike in the artificial sky-blue glow of the night lights, but still so dark in there, with the door closed and locked... some part of me inside some part of Peter... his breath in my mouth, his pulse racing under my fingers...oh, my sweet, dirty little boy who wants me so, so much...  
  
Nathan stood still for a moment, his thoughts racing. But I'm here with my wife. We can't do that. Peter and I cannot be alone this Thanksgiving. It's not right. It's too dangerous. We have to behave ourselves this year, keep our hands off each other. We have got to kick the habit. But the holidays always throw us together, and I never seem to be able to exercise discipline. It's so hard to say no to him when he wants me. I have to tell him no. But... God, I'd love a kiss right now; I'd love to feel him clinging to me. I'd love to hold him in my arms, like a teddy bear. Like a security blanket. For some reason, I am afraid. Something strange is going on. I'm scared and I need him.  
  
"Well, hello, Nathan. How wonderful to see you." A loud, cheerful, accented voice broke into Nathan's consciousness like a glass of cold water thrown into his face.  
  
Nathan just stared for a moment before he could speak. What the hell was this guy doing there? Did he know the Coopers, too? Dad might have introduced them... but why would he do that? Wouldn't Dad want to keep his clients separate? And wouldn't Dad want to keep absolutely anybody separate from him? But the game was still being played, and Nathan knew his part, and knew his place.  
  
"Good evening, Mr. Linderman," Nathan replied, flashing his teeth, but it wasn't really a smile. "Happy holidays."  
  
"Likewise, thank you."  
  
"I'm surprised to see you out in this neck of the woods," Nathan said. "I'd think you'd want to stay in Vegas, where at least it's warm."  
  
"Ah, but the charms of New York in winter cannot be overstated, and since I'm in the city for a business meeting anyway, I decided to accept Cooper's gracious invitation. And here I was, thinking I would be crashing a small, intimate family supper." Linderman looked at Nathan intently, as if expecting a reaction, and when Nathan said nothing, Linderman looked away again, letting his eye be caught by the buffet supper spread on the long table in the center of the room. "This is my favorite of the purely American holidays. Thanksgiving." The expansive, grand way Linderman said it, it should have been painted onto a huge scroll to be hung outside a circus tent. If he ever wanted to get out of the mafia business, Linderman could have a great career doing voice-overs for car commercials. "An entire holiday centered around the concept of gratitude. Giving thanks... through excessive consumption. I completely understand that concept," he chuckled. "As I'm sure you can imagine. But gratitude... that's a concept that we should really keep firmly in mind at all times."  
  
"Indeed," Nathan replied. He struggled to keep the profound unease from his voice. "How's the casino business doing?"  
  
Linderman replied heartily, "Oh, wonderfully – booming, one might say. Your father has been an invaluable help in facilitating the process; keeping the wolves from the door. Helping me stay not just one, but two steps ahead. Business is excellent, and growth is assured." Linderman's smile faded slightly, but his wide, fathomless, crystal-blue eyes lingered on Nathan, examining every detail of Nathan's face, his suit, his shoes. Just as Nathan was beginning to squirm under the scrutiny, Linderman looked away and out over the crowd. "How is your brother? I hear that he works at the East Lang Assistance Center downtown."  
  
Nathan furrowed his brow, wondering how the hell Linderman would know that. Had Dad been talking to him? That wasn't the kind of thing that Dad would mention to someone else; Dad wouldn't talk about Peter with Linderman. Would he? Nathan tightened his jaw, seized with a sudden urge to punch out the white-haired older man. It would be a terrible mistake to even try such a thing. "Peter's... fine. He's in school."  
  
"Wonderful. I'm glad to hear he's doing well." Linderman sipped his drink. It looked like vodka and tonic, but he stood close enough to Nathan that Nathan could smell that there was no alcohol in the glass, nor tonic water. Soda water with a twist of lime? Linderman had the advantage, as always. "It seems a good job for someone with his personality."  
  
"Oh, you think so? Why?"  
  
Linderman regarded Nathan coolly, his expression telling Nathan that he knew that Nathan wanted to deck him, and that Nathan would never dare. Never. Not as long as Nathan had loved ones; not as long as Nathan had goals.  
  
Like Nathan's father had said, a long time ago, Rule number one: Do not fuck with Mr. Linderman. Just play along, or regret it for the rest of your life.  
  
"Peter is very... compassionate," Linderman replied. "A person of deep feelings, and a profound need to help humanity. I understand how he feels. The next year will be a most interesting one for us. The world is changing; a sincere desire to help may well be the most valuable asset of all."  
  
"How can I help you, Mr. Linderman?" Nathan asked coldly, dropping his smile.  
  
Linderman smiled enough for both of them, and suddenly looked every inch the somewhat daffy, eccentric old uncle from a children's storybook – trustworthy and wise, full of excellent humor and funny stories. "Oh... for now, just make small talk. I am currently in hiding from your mother."  
  
"From Ma? Why?"  
  
Linderman made a "you know how it goes" dismissive sound. "She and I don't often see eye to eye. That's been the case for years, though she and I have so much, fundamentally, in common. She'd rather think the opposite, but we're quite similar, your mother and I. Still... we had a brief chat earlier tonight, and I do believe that she's quite come round to seeing my point of view on something that's been a sticking point for years. Unfortunately, this new understanding has left her somewhat... agitated."  
  
Nathan felt completely confused. This wasn't unusual, around Linderman; it was one of the many things that Nathan didn't like about him. He felt sweat breaking out on his forehead. "What are you talking about?"  
  
"Oh... It's really nothing you need concern yourself with, dear boy. A trivial matter of the sort that older people get up to, and blow all out of proportion to its actual significance. Have you ever seen a row break out over shuffleboard? Or bingo? Terrible... kicking, scratching... it's awful. Never take a cruise, under any circumstances." Linderman glanced out at the crowd again, watching, looking for someone. "How's your wife, Nathan?"  
  
"She's fine," Nathan bit out.  
  
Linderman smiled teasingly back at Nathan. "You know, I must confess that I was quite surprised when you married her. I know that there were extenuating circumstances... nonetheless. Not only did you seem such a committed bachelor..." Linderman's smile grew to a grin, and only the lowering of both eyelids at once removed any suspicion that he was winking at Nathan. "But Heidi hardly seems your type. I always thought you had a taste for... blondes."  
  
"Just what the hell do you mean by that?!" Nathan hissed, the blood draining from his face.  
  
Linderman gazed balefully at Nathan, as if to say, We both know exactly what I mean.  
  
Then the cheerful, dotty smile returned to the older man's face. "Tut tut – just small talk. Small talk. I wish you nothing but the absolute best. You, and your family. And speaking of your loving family, I think your brother has been looking for you."  
  
"Where is he?" Nathan demanded.  
  
Linderman shrugged."I'm flattered that you assume I'd know. I can't tell you definitively exactly where he is now, but last time I saw him, he was on the second-floor terrace with a group of other young people. I do believe they were smoking pot." Linderman chuckled, like he'd just said something naughty. "I certainly hope so... it's such a beautiful relic of a gentler time."  
  
Nathan was stymied. Peter didn't normally seek that kind of thing out; he must have been in a really bad way. Suddenly, his thoughts were consumed with concern for Peter. "I'm fairly sure smoking pot never completely went out of style, Mr. Linderman."  
  
"Indeed," said Linderman, grinning. "I wouldn't know anymore... I leave all that stuff to the young people these days. I had my fun. I can see that you want to find Peter... Happy Thanksgiving, Nathan. You are a very lucky man, with a bright future."  
  
Nathan said "Good evening," quickly, already on his way through the crowd, headed for the stairs.  
  
Peter was indeed out on the second-floor terrace, and there was indeed a small knot of teenagers and college-aged kids, passing a joint around. When they saw Nathan, the girl who was holding the roach dropped it into her spangled clutch purse and gave him a weak smile. Nathan barely noticed her; his focus was entirely on Peter. He stood out on the terrace, but he wasn't with the smoking group at all. Instead, he was pressed against the railing, the freezing wind whipping his shaggy hair against his forehead, gripping the wrought-iron barrier with his bare hands, staring up into the sky as if wishing he could take off into it. He looked beautiful and demented and pure.  
  
"Hey, Pete, you okay?" Nathan asked, gently resting his hand on Peter's shoulder. Peter gave a slight lurch as he turned his head to look at Nathan. "You don't even have your coat on. Aren't you cold?" Nathan took Peter's hands in his, holding them close to his body to warm them up.  
  
"Nah," Peter replied. "I'm warm with booze. I had some hot rum punch. And then I came out here, and got a contact high." He smiled sloppily at the retreating backs of the smoking kids, who had suddenly and universally decided they'd go back in. "Thanks!" he called after them.  
  
"That's not such a good combination..." Nathan muttered, putting his arms around Peter and herding him back inside, too. The hallway was as steamy-hot as a sauna compared to the bleak freshness of outdoors, and Nathan was tempted to turn around and go back out. But he didn't want Peter to catch a cold, not in the middle of the holidays.  
  
"I dunno, I think it's pretty great." Peter laughed, his body wavering in Nathan's arms. "I... kinda got the spins, though."  
  
Nathan drew back a little. "Are you going to puke?"  
  
"No, no," Peter said reassuringly, gently touching Nathan's cheek. "I just had to go outside. For a minute. I'm fine. I'll have some coffee. Hey... do you want to go see if they still have that... bathroom in the basement?" He leaned in close and stage-whispered, "I'll let you finger me."  
  
"Peter," said Nathan warningly, staring around the hallway. Fortunately, the corridor was all but deserted, now that the stoner kids had all gone in search of Scotch broth and champagne. "No, we shouldn't," Nathan continued. "I told Heidi I'd meet her. Look – Peter, Linderman's here."  
  
"What?" Peter immediately seemed sober.  
  
Nathan was glad to see it. He stared into Peter's eyes. "He knows where you work."  
  
"So," said Peter sullenly. Nope, still pretty drunk. He couldn't quite focus his eyes on Nathan.  
  
"What the hell do you mean, 'so'? He knows where you work. He doesn't need to know that."  
  
Peter shrugged and made a face. "No, he doesn't, but I don't care if he knows. I don't care who knows. It's my job," he declared, talking too loud.  
  
"Shh...! Peter, look, you don't understand."  
  
"The fuck I don't!" Peter stepped back and scowled at Nathan. "I'm sick of this! You said you'd drop it!"  
  
"It's... dangerous," Nathan said, knowing too late how it was going to sound to Peter. But there was no other way of putting it. There was so much that was true about that statement, and it would take all night – and longer, the way Peter was being – for Nathan to explain it.  
  
Peter took it just the way Nathan knew and feared he would. "I'm done," he snapped. He held up his hands, palms out. "You know what, I changed my mind. I am gonna go home. Because fuck this." He turned on his heel and stomped away from Nathan.  
  
Nathan wiped his face with his hands, wondering how much more wrong this night could go. He went back outside for a while, pressing himself against the railing and staring up into the sky, wondering if he could just...  
  
But, instead, he went back inside. He got another scotch, neat this time, and drank half of it straight down.  
  
On his way back to the fireplace, to rendezvous with Heidi (it seemed like hours had gone by since he'd last spoken to her), Nathan was intercepted by his mother. Angela was as white as a sheet, her fingers on his sleeves trembling. "Nathan," she breathed, then put her arms around him and gave him a tight hug. Nathan appreciated the embrace, but asked, "Ma, what's wrong?"  
  
"Where's Peter?" she asked shakily. "I want to see him."  
  
"Uh, I think... he said he was going home. What is it, Ma? What's the matter?"  
  
Angela shook her head and pressed her lips together. "I can't sit back and watch him suffer like this. It isn't right. Nathan," she said urgently, "you have to help him before it's too late."  
  
Nathan shrugged helplessly. "He doesn't want my help, Ma. He told me so about twenty times tonight."  
  
"Peter doesn't know what he wants. He's a sweet boy, but he doesn't understand what's really right for him. You saw him. He's a mess." She took a deep, shaky breath, then abruptly relaxed and broke into a wide smile. "Oh, look... how wonderful. I was hoping that he'd be here. That's Dr. Richardson... the director of the Coalition for the Homeless."  
  
"You know him?" asked Nathan, surprised.  
  
"Of course I do. Do you really think that I wouldn't know the man my son works for? I met him at a charity ball in September. And... I saw that his name was on Mary Cooper's guest list."  
  
"That's a handy coincidence," Nathan mused.  
  
Angela quirked her eyebrows at her son, and briskly straightened the knot in his tie. "There's no such thing as coincidence, dear – only impeccable planning. It's a small world, and among those in power, it's even smaller. Now, I know that the central office is always hiring fund-raising supervisors. This is a great opportunity for you to help your brother. Now, Nathan," she said, "go work some of your magic. Change Peter's life, for the better."  
  
Nathan squinted at her. "Ma, he's not gonna like that."  
  
She fixed him with a determined stare. "We know what's best. Your brother deserves better than 'flat broke.' He can keep helping people, without having to starve half to death."  
  
"Good call, Ma," said Nathan, half resigned, and half excited – welcoming the chance to have some work to do, something to allow him to escape from his confused, emotional thoughts. And, as always, he stood in awe of his mother's deviousness. Nathan was good, but he had a long way to go to catch up with her. He was just grateful that she was on his side. "You're right. Do me a favor and go talk to Heidi – she's right next to the fireplace. Let her know that I didn't get lost."  
  
"That's my good boy," Angela replied, kissing him on the cheek, and winding her way through the crowd. Nathan stood for a moment and watched her go, then finished his drink and approached Dr. Richardson with a commanding stride and his most charismatic smile.  
  
Think about anything other than Linderman.  
  
  
  
  
  
FRIDAY.  
  
Peter awoke in an unfamiliar bed.  
  
Alone.  
  
He sat up and blinked at the room, baffled and unhappy, and gradually it came back to him; this was his bedroom, or once it had been his room, but his bed used to be over there, along that wall. And there used to be an Italian La Strada movie poster across the room on the facing wall. And he used to look at that poster, think about obsessive and destructive love, and jack off until his wrists went numb.  
  
Now the room was all lilac-and-white, with odd little fussy flowers, and lavender-scented sheets and pillows on the bed, and none of the sublime chaos of Fellini anywhere. This felt like a girl's room now, and a gloomy one, too, with the pale-violet walls making the room seem cold and drowsy. Peter would have liked to just roll over and go back to sleep, but now that he realized that he hadn't actually gone to his apartment last night, but to the home of his childhood, he was too annoyed to relax.  
  
In the shower, he pieced together as many details as he could from the night before. A lot of wine drunk very quickly at dinner at home, and not much food consumed. He knew he had gone to the Coopers' in the car with his parents, but he didn't remember anything about the ride; did Dad drive, or was there a driver?... Three cups of hot rum punch at the supper, and no food, because the alcohol had killed his appetite. Out on the terrace, getting caught downwind of a handful of toking prep-school kids. They'd offered him a hit, or a bump of coke, but he just wanted the air and the cold.  
  
Waiting for Nathan to find him, which he did.  
  
Unfortunately, what Peter had hoped would happen at that point hadn't happened; he hadn't gotten dragged down into the basement, into that bathroom (or any other; any one would do), thrown up against the wall and... whatever. Fucked or sucked or fingered or even just kissed breathless; something, anything to take him away.  
  
Instead Nathan had just repeated that he thought Peter wasn't good enough to do his job, or smart enough to know his own mind. And then told Peter that Linderman was there, as if that justified Nathan's opinion, when everybody knew that Linderman didn't care about him. It was just more of Nathan throwing his weight around, more of Nathan trying to manipulate him, making excuses for why they were wasting time when it would be so easy to just sneak off somewhere for ten minutes.  
  
Peter fought off his hangover and his resentment for just a few seconds, just long enough to masturbate away his morning erection. What he'd wanted last night, and hadn't gotten, was so vivid in his mind, burnished with fantasy and frustrated desire, that all he needed was a moment of visualization, and a few firm strokes, to bring him to orgasm. He hissed through his teeth – a tiny shaping of breath that would have been barely audible, even without the noise of the water.  
  
"Nathan...!"  
  
Maybe, now, he could just be done with it for a while. Just because it was the holidays didn't automatically mean that he and Nathan would play together, and now, with the aching tension in his groin relieved, Peter resolved to set his longings aside. The time just wasn't right. Maybe later; maybe mid-month, maybe after the start of the new year...?  
  
Peter put a stop to that train of thought; it was thoughts like those that had gotten him into trouble before, and made him drink too much last night. The hoping, the waiting, the wanting. Goddamn Nathan. "Forget it, Peter," he said sternly to his reflection in the mirror. "Not this year."  
  
Downstairs, in the sun-bathed dining room, his family was already breakfasting, and today, Simon and Monty were there, too. Peter was glad to see the children; not only did he love them, but they were even more of a barrier between him and his parents. Who would bother to focus on Peter when there were two adorable kids in the room? He came around the table and gave the boys hugs and kisses, and then sat down. "Good morning," he said, trying to come across as cheerful, personable, and mature, but not excessively so. He wasn't completely successful – to himself, he sounded uptight and artificial. Peter hoped that no one would notice or care. He was going to behave himself today if it killed him.  
  
"Did you sleep well, dear?" Angela asked lightly.  
  
"Yeah, thanks," Peter said.  
  
"Early night for you last night," Nathan mentioned, stirring his coffee. "When did you leave?"  
  
"I have no idea what time it was," Peter said. "I was... really tired. Just glad to get home. I mean – here. Thank you for letting me stay."  
  
"Of course; you're always welcome here. This is still your home, too, Peter," Angela said.  
  
"Oh, I'm not complaining," Peter said, taking several slices of toast and jam. "At least there's food here."  
  
Heidi looked at Peter so sadly that he was tempted to say something to reassure her, but Angela began briskly announcing items on her to-do list, and nobody else could say anything. "Today we are going to the Art Museum for the Santangelo retrospective, and then lunch. Dinner at five sharp, then our tickets are for seven. Make sure you eat dinner, Peter; it's a long play. Overton is making you a soufflé of asparagus. It's very good, I've had it before. And tomorrow at one, the photographer comes to take our Christmas card picture. There's still time for you to get your hair cut, Peter, and please do."  
  
Peter looked at Nathan imploringly, but Nathan only blinked at Peter, and sipped his coffee.  
  
The art museum was tolerable, mostly because Peter spoke only when spoken to, and that wasn't very often. He tagged along behind everyone else, listening to the Mountain Goats on his iPod, trying hard not to worry about what was going on back at East Lang. Usually he treasured his rare days off, but this one had been imposed, and he couldn't shake the fear that something would go wrong.  
  
After lunch, when they had all returned to the house for tea, Peter excused himself and went out to the snowy courtyard, getting out his phone. There was a message on it from the district supervisor, which had only happened once before — when Peter had been notified that he had the job interview for the East Lang intake clerk. "Call me as soon as you get this, Peter," the district supervisor's message said. Her voice was much warmer and more relaxed than it had been that other time. "Don't worry; it's good news."  
  
He returned the call, and asked the receptionist to be patched through. "This is Peter Petrelli," Peter said, once they had been connected. "What can I do for you?"  
  
"How soon can you start?"  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"We could use you first thing Monday morning – eight o'clock, here at headquarters; you remember from your last interview, it's at West 39th and Fifth, suite 322. Congratulations, and I look forward to having you as part of our team here. It'll be good to have someone who's had experience at East Lang; most of the staff there don't usually end up here—"  
  
"Excuse me, Ms. Doran, but I don't know what you're talking about."  
  
"Your interview, Peter. For the Lower East Side regional fund-raising coordinator. It's just a formality to introduce you to the team, really. I'm surprised you didn't apply for it to begin with; the position was open then, too. I think you've got it, no problem; you... have the right skills." Her voice trailed off as she guessed that it hadn't entirely been Peter's idea to apply. "Is there something wrong?"  
  
Peter nodded slowly and didn't say anything for a moment. "I... changed my mind," he said at last. "I'm not actually ready to make such a major change right now, what with school and all. Thanks for... your consideration, though, Ms. Doran, I... think I'm just going to stay on intake at East Lang for the time being. Thanks for your time; I'll speak to you later."  
  
He clicked off his phone, and slid it back into the inner pocket of his sports coat, going back indoors, his pulse roaring in his ears.  
  
Heidi and his mother were seated on the long couch in the parlor, one child in each of their laps, laughing over photo albums, cooing over how cute Nathan and Peter had been when they were Monty and Simon's age. Nathan sat separate, watching them and smiling. Peter stood in the doorway, and said off-handedly, "Nathan, can I talk to you out here for a minute?"  
  
"Sure, Pete," Nathan said, and walked out to join Peter in the hallway. "What's up?"  
  
Peter gathered all the strength in his body and focused it into a single punch to Nathan's jaw. The blow nearly knocked Nathan down, and it hurt the hell out of Peter's hand, but it was worth it, just to see Nathan's expression. Nathan straightened up with murderous rage written on his face. "Come on," Peter taunted, breathing hard. "Hit me. I dare you. Show me what you can do, since you're so much better than me at everything. Fuckin' asshole. C'mon, hit me."  
  
"Look, I did you a favor," Nathan said between pain-gritted teeth. "It's a good job – I just got your foot in the door."  
  
"I told you to stay out of it!" Peter shouted.  
  
Angela and Heidi came running out into the hall, Heidi still holding Monty, who began to cry. Angela shouted "Peter!" and Heidi cried "Nathan!" at once. "Oh, Peter, how could you?" Angela added reproachfully, carefully examining Nathan's face, where the ridges of Peter's knuckles had left bright red welts. "Your brother was just trying to help you."  
  
"Oh, you knew, too?" Peter replied, his body quaking with adrenaline. He shrugged, trying to shake it off. He couldn't, and now he felt sick and had the shakes. It was awful; he wanted to fight, wanted to get hit back, for things to make sense, and it wasn't going to happen. Goddamn you, Nathan, denying me that, too. "Dad, too, probably, huh? How 'bout you, Heid? No surprise there. All of you and your plans for me. I'm going home – my home – and I'm not coming back. I'm going to kick his ass if I stay here." He smiled and shook his head. "I'm all holidayed out. I appreciate what you were trying to do. But please... don't. When I need help, I'll ask for it."  
  
No one said anything for a while, and Peter held his breath so that he wouldn't just start crying. "All right, Peter. We'll find someone to take your theater ticket; it's a shame to let it go to waste," Angela said calmly. Heidi bounced and shushed Monty, taking him back into the parlor, where Simon had begun to cry, too. "But please... our Christmas card photo tomorrow. Please be here for that. Just one picture, Peter. Just for our memories."  
  
"Okay, but I won't stand next to him," Peter said, glaring at Nathan.  
  
Nathan narrowed his eyes right back, and added a slight, smirky smile. "That's all right," Nathan replied smoothly, "I've got Heidi for that."  
  
Peter felt all the anger drain out of him, his skin suddenly cold all over, and lowered his gaze. Without another word, he went back to the bedroom that was no longer his, and gathered his things. When he returned downstairs, only his mother stood there, gazing at him with an expression of heartfelt guilt, sadness, and love. He went to her and hugged her tight, kissing her cheek three times. She returned the three kisses. "I'm sorry, Peter," she said. "I'm just so afraid for you. You're my baby, and it's a scary world." He wanted to reply, to say something that would make everything all right, absolve them both, but he had nothing. He gave her a weak smile, and turned and left the house.  
  
  
SATURDAY.  
  
The photographer herded them all together in front of a green velvet drape in the parlor. He wanted to put Peter and Nathan beside each other for symmetry, like all the previous Christmas card photos, standing behind their seated parents with Simon on Angela's lap, and Nathan and Heidi standing next to each other, Heidi holding Monty. But Peter had made his decision and stubbornly stuck with it, forcing the increasingly annoyed photographer to come up with an entirely new configuration. Monty had caught Simon's cold, and would not stop crying, even when he was given a candy cane and a toy truck. Simon saw that preferential treatment, and kicked Monty. Monty grabbed Simon's ear and pulled hard. Parental yelling and further crying ensued. Peter just stood off to the side, leaning against a door frame, watching it all, expressionless. "Can we hurry this up?" he said.  
  
"You're a spoiled, ungrateful brat," Arthur snapped, infuriated. "You're worse than those babies right there."  
  
"Oh, fuck off, Dad," Peter said without enthusiasm.  
  
"Peter, you're not helping!" Nathan said sharply.  
  
"Hey, it's not my fault the kids are crying. They're sick; they don't want to be here."  
  
"Peter," Heidi's tense voice broke in, so sharp and authoritative that both of her young sons instantly quit crying. "Nathan. Both of you. In the kitchen. Right now. Angela, please look after the boys for me for a minute." She sounded so much like a silkier, higher-voiced version of their mother that Peter and Nathan obeyed her without thinking twice about it.  
  
They stood in the kitchen, several feet away from each other, staring in opposite directions, until Heidi joined them, quietly shutting the door behind her.  
  
"You guys are both acting like assholes," she said. Peter blinked; he had never heard her talk like that before. "Yes, both of you. Both of you are wrong. Both of you are right. That's the simple fact of the matter. Arguing over right and wrong isn't going to get either of you anywhere. Nathan, apologize to Peter."  
  
"But–" Nathan began.  
  
Heidi wasn't finished. "Peter," she snapped, her eyes flashing like blue flares at Peter, "apologize to Nathan. Not to me. Not in front of me. Apologize to each other. We're going go back out there, and we're going to take that picture for those damn Christmas cards. And then both of you are going to go away, and I don't want to see either of you until you've worked this out. And I don't care how long it takes, because I can't live with you when you're like this, Nathan. It was stupid and insensitive for you to do what you did, no matter how pure your intentions are – and Peter, you're just being an immature jerk. You're sulking, and pouting, and whining. And I've got two little boys at home, so I really don't need another one here. Grow the hell up and start appreciating your family. This is my vacation too, okay? Stop wrecking it. Now get it together. Your father has a heart problem; he doesn't need this."  
  
When she left, she left the door slightly open. Peter and Nathan looked after her for a moment, then hazarded a glance at each other. Too soon. Both dropped their eyes to the floor and shuffled their feet, then Peter left the kitchen without a word. Nathan followed slowly behind him.  
  
The Petrelli family posed successfully for the photograph – the father on one end, Nathan holding Simon, Heidi holding Monty, Angela, and Peter at the far right, one hand resting on his mother's arm. Nathan had to turn slightly toward Heidi to hide the redness and swelling on his face, and Peter's expression could only grudgingly be called a smile. "Wonderful," said the photographer in a voice that might have been sarcastic. "You're a beautiful family. Thank you."  
  
After they had finished, Dad went upstairs without another word, and slammed his bedroom door. Nathan had a brief, murmured conference with his mother, during which she kept her eyes on Peter. Peter, standing near Heidi, caught her eye. "Sorry," he offered, but she just rolled her eyes and shook her head and turned away from him.  
  
"Go away," Heidi said quietly.  
  
Nathan walked up to them and took Peter's arm, firmly but gently, steering him to the coat closet, and then the front door, without saying a word. The two of them settled into Nathan's car, and Nathan drove into the post-holiday-shopping traffic, headed downtown on Eighth Avenue. Wherever they were going, it wouldn't be quickly, not on the biggest shopping day of the year when about a million people were headed for FAO Schwartz and Macy's.  
  
Neither of them spoke for several agonizing minutes. Peter switched on the radio, and Nathan immediately turned it off again.  
  
Peter sighed with annoyance. "You apologize first, and then I'll apologize," he said.  
  
"I'm not ready to apologize yet," Nathan retorted sharply. They retreated back into resentful silence for a long time before Nathan spoke again. "Where do you want to go?"  
  
"How about the zoo," Peter replied, sighing. "It's been a while since I've been there. It'll be nice to walk around in the cold. I've been cooped up too much lately." Nathan said nothing, but changed direction, headed back toward Central Park.  
  
Peter felt a kinship with the zoo in winter. It was always so odd and poignant to see the animals, especially ones from much warmer native climates, dealing with cold and snow and confinement. They were out of place, and Peter knew that he identified with that sensation; being uncomfortably on display at times, ignored at other times, but never quite right; never quite comfortable, and never free.  
  
The colobus monkeys, though, didn't seem unhappy in the slightest. They romped through the branches of their temperature-controlled monkey house, not being shy of the onlookers, but being rather more involved in their own interpersonal goings-on. They were a large group, maybe fifteen monkeys, all swarming around, momentarily still, then all of them active and chaotic again.  
  
Peter found that as he watched closely, the interactions became clearer to him. Two of the black-and-white monkeys kept harassing each other; as soon as one tried to strike or bite the other, they would hide behind other monkeys in the group, who chattered and coughed at them. Then, when one of the quarreling monkeys hid behind the biggest monkey in the group, the big monkey abruptly grabbed the hiding one, and tossed him at his adversary. The monkey group exploded into screeching and arm-waving, like an excited stadium of spectators. The two monkeys who had been picking on each other from the start had a brief, scrappy fist-fight, then broke apart and ran away from each other, shrieking. When the hubbub of the group died down, the two fighters met up with each other on a lower branch, and began to groom each other as if nothing had ever happened. Peter found himself laughing faintly.  
  
Nathan had been watching that interaction, too. "That's a trip," he said.  
  
Peter turned his gaze to Nathan, and rested his hand against the back of Nathan's neck, underneath his scarf, then ran his fingernails up into the smooth, short, velvety hair at Nathan's nape. Smiling a little, Peter tugged on Nathan's earlobe, peeked into Nathan's ear, and plucked lint off his scarf.  
  
Nathan smiled too, running his fingertip along the edge of Peter's coat collar. "I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head at how simple it was.  
  
"I'm sorry, too," Peter said. He glanced around quickly, and seeing that they were momentarily alone in the monkey house, he dared to press a brief kis against Nathan's lips. It only lasted a second, and they broke away and didn't touch, but they had passed the barrier of personal space, standing only a few inches away from each other, close enough to feel each other's warmth. "And I believe you, but you know it's not enough. You know what we need to do," Peter continued, his voice quiet and intense. "You know what we need. We can't talk about this. We can't talk this through. We can't. I can't understand you right now when you talk. You say things, and I know that's not what you mean, but I'm always inclined to believe what you say to me, even when I know I shouldn't. But you can't lie to me when we're... together. I can show you what I need. I always... I ask you for what I need; if that doesn't work, I show you what I need. And I give you what you need. 'Cos you need it. And if you think you don't need it, you're crazy."  
  
Nathan lowered his gaze, and shook his head. "You're crazy for insisting that I do." His words sounded hollow, even to himself.  
  
Peter smiled and closed his eyes. "See?" he responded. "You don't mean that. You've trained yourself so well to never say what you mean – only what people want to hear, only what's 'right' to say. It's not what you really feel."  
  
"You want me to tell you what I really feel?" Nathan challenged, raising his eyebrows. "You want to hear something that's true, and see if you understand it?" Peter raised his too, challenging back. Nathan smiled nervously, and took a deep breath. "Linderman."  
  
"Linderman?" Peter echoed, shaking his head. "I don't understand."  
  
"I have... a memory," Nathan said. "I didn't... know if it was real. I think I've been telling myself that it wasn't, but now I'm pretty sure it was real. And he reminded me of it himself on Thursday night." Nathan stared back at the monkeys, the majority now hiding in the thicker branches, and the two grooming pals having climbed up higher, but still separate and still together.  
  
"I was a little kid," Nathan continued, speaking slowly, with difficulty, feeling Peter's eyes burning into him. "It was before you were born, before you were even thought of. He came to our house to talk to Dad, but Dad was doing something upstairs in his office, and he hadn't come down to meet Linderman yet. And Mom was... somewhere else; I don't remember where. Downstairs fixing drinks, or something. Maybe she'd been told not to come in. To leave us alone for a minute."  
  
Peter stared at Nathan with blank horror. "He didn't—"  
  
Nathan frowned, shaking his head slightly. "Kind of," Nathan said. "Well, not really. Not exactly." He sighed, trying to sort his jumbled, blurry thoughts. They clarified slowly, like the mist evaporating from a window, and returned to startlingly sharp focus. These vague, fragmented images from dreams that had been with him for so long, the violent unease he had felt in Linderman's presence at the dinner party, all suddenly coalesced and made sense, standing this close to his brother, still feeling the comforting imprint of his lips. "He was kind of crouched down, so that we were at eye level, and he was standing really close to me. He touched... my face, right here, where the scars are now." Nathan brought the back of his hand to the deep scoring on his chin and jaw, where the perfect lines of his face lost cohesion, where the Navy doctors had stitched his face back together. "Like he knew."  
  
He hesitated for a long time before he continued, "That wasn't the weird part, though. The weird part is what he said. He said...'Yes, Nathan. It will be you. Good; I'm glad it's you. You'll do fine. You'll do extraordinary things one day, you know. You'll look out over the whole world and say "This is mine." You'll walk into a room filled with the most beautiful women, and the sexiest blonde in the shortest skirt will come up to you and say, "I'm yours." And when that happens, you need to take her, Nathan. It's not love, but in a way, it's better.'" Nathan shook his head, then continued, in the same whispery voice he'd been using to quote Linderman, "'Don't ever defy me, Nathan. It would be a mistake.'"  
  
"Jesus," Peter whispered.  
  
Nathan shook his head, returning to the present. "And I forgot about it. I made myself forget. It was too weird. It didn't make any sense. I didn't feel violated, or molested, or anything; I just... wondered what he was talking about."  
  
"You were how old?" Peter asked.  
  
"I dunno... I'd say six or seven, I guess. Old enough so that I knew he wasn't supposed to talk to me like that, even if I didn't understand what he was talking about. I mean, hell, even now, it still doesn't make sense." Nathan swallowed and shrugged, lowering his eyes. "Anyway, the next day or maybe the day after, I told Ma about it."  
  
Peter stared at him. "What did she do?"  
  
Other zoo visitors had joined them in the semi-warmth of the monkey house, and Nathan sighed at their intrusion. Peter took no notice of them, watching Nathan intently. "She just gave me a quick hug and told me that I hadn't done anything wrong, and not to worry about it. So I didn't. We never mentioned it again. And I remember... things got kind of weird between her and Dad for a while; they weren't fighting, not in the way that I think of fighting, but enough to make me feel kind of anxious. And then it went away, and everything was just normal. But I started boarding school pretty soon after that." Nathan shook his head. "I think maybe they sent me there to protect me."  
  
"But nothing like that ever happened to me," Peter mused. "Maybe that's why I didn't have to go away to school."  
  
Nathan said, "Maybe. Maybe Ma just wanted to keep an eye on you; that's what she told me, anyway. Maybe she wanted to make sure that he didn't get her other kid alone. I mean, Linderman isn't a pedophile. As far as I know. He didn't – you know. I didn't really get that vibe from him at all. Kids can tell. But... even at the time, he seemed like... he didn't want to, but he would, if he needed to." Nathan shook his head. "He's interested in control. He wants to control me — and he knows that a very effective way of controlling me is by putting you in danger. So I... tried to get you away, because he knows where you work, what you do."  
  
"But that doesn't make any sense," Peter said, holding up his hand. "Linderman doesn't care about me."  
  
"I care about you, Peter," Nathan said. "I care. And he knows that. And that gives him power over me."  
  
Peter gazed into Nathan's eyes for a long time, unable to resist the vague smile that spread across his face. Nathan didn't smile back, his eyes wide, dark, and vulnerable. But brave, too; brave of him to maintain eye contact, after having disclosed something so intense. "So stop caring about me," Peter offered. "Problem solved."  
  
"I can't," Nathan said. "I'd love to," he added, with a short laugh, then he lowered his eyes. "But I can't. I love you. And I'm scared, remembering all that, all of a sudden, suddenly knowing that I didn't just imagine it. It's been on my mind, and it made me... I don't know. I want to protect you. And I'm scared of what all this means, and... I need you to comfort me." He spoke in a half whisper, grimacing and trembling, like he was doing emergency surgery on himself – cutting into a snake bite to drain the venom from it, putting in his own stitches, digging a bullet out of his flesh.  
  
Peter smiled for a moment, observing this. "Me, comfort you," he said, his voice combining disbelief, amusement, quietly simmering anger and desire. But relaxed, infinitely relaxed. Because they'd done this before, said this before; sometimes not aloud, sometimes not in words. But they had done this before, over and over again. This was part of the process, too – the stinging splash of astringent in the self-inflicted, therapeutic wound. Nathan admitting that he was weaker than he wanted to be, and Peter agreeing, knocking Nathan down, too, to prove it.  
  
"The great Nathan. Needs comfort. From little Peter. Don't you have a wife for that?" Peter said, visibly struggling to keep the smile off his face, but his eyes sparkling.  
  
Knocking him down, and then picking him up again.  
  
Are we gonna play now? Please please please?  
  
Nathan locked eyes with Peter, and slowly shook his head. "It's not the same. It's nothing to do with this. This is between you and me."  
  
Oh yes, we play.  
  
"You've made me very angry, Nathan," said Peter sternly, but in that coded, intimate tone of voice that they only used with each other.  
  
"You've made me very angry, Peter," was Nathan's comeback, almost smiling, but not quite. "Are you ready to deal with that?"  
  
"Oh, yeah," Peter said.  
  
Nathan briefly angled his head toward the monkey house's exit, and they left side by side, neither of them leading the other, not touching but keeping close, and walking in perfect step.  
  
An elderly couple, standing closer to the railings separating the monkey's tree habitat from the floor, watched them go, then glanced at each other. "I wonder how long those two have been together," whispered the lady to the gentleman, making him giggle.

* * *

  
"My place," Peter said.  
  
They were the only words spoken on the drive downtown. Peter switched the radio on, quietly, and found his favorite pirate station on the dial. They were playing lightly remixed Miles Davis. Nathan left it on, half listening to the music, and half listening to the sound of Peter's deep, accelerated breathing, occasionally punctuated with a sigh or a barely audible moan, squirming a little in his seat, like he was immersed in a highly sensual dream. Peter wasn't touching himself, though; Nathan would have been able to see that from the corner of his eye.  
  
Nathan wanted to say something, but Peter was just being so quiet, so delicious, forcing Nathan to confront his own thoughts without the outlet of speech. Talking relieved tension, and that was the last thing that Peter seemed to want. Nathan found his own breathing suddenly heavier as he tried in vain to calm himself, but he perceived every tiny circle that Peter made with his hips that rubbed his ass against the car seat, every subtle strain that Peter made against his seat belt, as if silently protesting its bondage. The music was the opposite of soothing, but not grating, either; instead it pressed urgently forward, eagerly seeking a future release that seemed right around the next measure, but kept moving away.  
  
Nathan wondered if Peter was getting as hard as he was.  
  
Peter's mind was elsewhere, floating in the half-blissful, half-crazy white noise of his thoughts, the mental state that always took over when he knew for certain that he and Nathan would soon be playing, having sex, fucking, screwing around, whatever terminology you wanted to use. Together. He couldn't examine his thoughts directly – it would be like looking at the sun – so he just let them wash over him, making no attempt to hang onto or make sense of any of them. If he thought too much about Nathan's body, or the loss of control that Nathan had to be experiencing, or what Nathan might do to him (or God forbid, what that might feel like), Peter would just come in his pants and make a mess. It had happened before, coming just by thinking about Nathan biting sucking spreading twitching after days of unsatisfied desire. Peter didn't want that. He wanted every time he came because of Nathan to be significant and shared, and if he couldn't have that, he wanted it to be secret, swift, and private.  
  
So he just sat there, and listened to the radio, and loved the pirate radio station, the DJ mixing together Bitches Brew and some other odd, clicky mid-tempo drum break, and some spoken word, maybe Timothy Leary?... no, it was Allen Ginsberg, reading from Howl... and that was both good and bad, because it was poetry about assfucking and transcendence, and Peter didn't really need any more thoughts about either one of those things. Fortunately that poetry track gently faded away and disappeared just in time for the rising swell of the trumpet to emerge, and Peter couldn't help moaning, and then gave a soft, faint laugh of relief and delight. Across the front seat of the car, Nathan sighed in answer, but sounded more annoyed than anything else.  
  
Peter just kept smiling. Soon.  
  
Finally, they arrived at Peter's apartment building, and Nathan parked in the underground garage. Peter jumped out of the car and hurried toward the elevators before Nathan had even turned off the ignition. He'd have liked to get into the elevator first, too, and watch the door close on his brother, but the elevator took a long time to come and Nathan caught up. His expression was cold and aggravated, but his erection made a slight bump against the drape of the front of his coat. Peter stared at the protrusion, trying not to smile; he had a hard-on, too, so there was no call for him to feel superior. Besides, superior – what the fuck was that? Nobody was superior here. They were both in the wrong, and Peter didn't know exactly what kind of "comfort" Nathan sought. He had the feeling that it would come at a high price.  
  
That was the other part of keeping his thoughts vague – it was a way of fighting off fear. Nathan had never hit Peter, but that didn't mean that he never would, or that Peter didn't deserve it. When Peter was younger, before they had ever gone all the way, he would fantasize about Nathan hitting him almost the same half-terrified, half-longing way he thought about Nathan fucking him. It was all scary, and the idea of being punched in the face was almost less frightening than being fucked. It still scared him. If Peter didn't want to feel Nathan inside him so badly, he'd never dare.  
  
But he did want it; he did need it. He needed to trust Nathan that much more, and he believed that Nathan was worthy of that trust. The worst he'd done was made Peter sore for a day, and really, that was okay.  
  
They didn't speak in the elevator, keeping to their separate corners, the sound of their heavy breathing filling the metal box.  
  
Nathan arched his eyebrow at the messiness of Peter's apartment, but said nothing. Peter turned to face Nathan, looking into his eyes briefly; Nathan had no expression. Peter turned away, hung up his coat and suit jacket, making himself busy. He went into his bathroom, and came back with his arms full of towels. Nathan hung up his coat too, and watched curiously as Peter walked past him into the kitchen, pretending to ignore him.  
  
Nathan followed him, and leaned against the wall, several feet away. Peter took off his button-down shirt and dropped it carelessly on the kitchen table, then began running hot water into the sink, keeping his back to Nathan, steam curling up around him.  
  
Nathan enjoyed the opportunity to openly stare at Peter, in private and alone. Here, he could examine the pale column of Peter's neck, his shoulders, his perfect back, Peter's shoulder blades moving fluidly under the white cotton of his T-shirt. Arms lean, but well-muscled, well-defined. An enviably narrow waist; the swell of the prominently curved rump. The Petrelli ass. Nathan chuckled to himself; he had it too, but his stuck out even more. He'd never noticed his own until he started noticing Peter's. And it had taken even longer for him to admit to himself that he had ever noticed Peter's.  
  
A guy's not supposed to look at his brother's ass like that.  
  
Nathan stumbled at this roadblock of shame, and retreated back into himself, not seeing Peter anymore even though he still had his eyes trained in that direction. He didn't notice Peter shutting off the water and dipping some of the smaller towels into it, wringing them out, then tossing the damp towels into a large mixing bowl. He didn't even notice Peter turning around and staring at him until Peter spoke.  
  
"Nathan," he said.  
  
"What?" Nathan responded, startled back to the room.  
  
Peter looked him up and down critically. "Take off your clothes," he said, then turned back to the sink.  
  
For a moment, Nathan just stood there.  
  
"What are you waiting for?" Peter said. "Do it. Or go home. You fucking pussy."  
  
Nathan narrowed his eyes, then slowly loosened his tie. Peter shook his head, methodically wringing out wet towels, but didn't turn around until he heard the sound of a zipper. Peter tried to just look over his shoulder, but soon he turned all the way around to face Nathan, regarding him with mild interest. He watched Nathan step out of his shoes, slide his trousers down and off, untuck and remove his shirt, and pull off the silk undershirt, folding everything carefully over the back of a kitchen chair. It was too brisk, but tentative, to be a strip tease, but Nathan didn't rush himself; he just didn't put on a show, either.  
  
Nathan tried to meet Peter's eyes, but Peter was focused on Nathan's body – the torso, the arms and shoulders, the legs. Nathan couldn't shake the feeling that he was being judged. Well, he had nothing to be ashamed of; Nathan knew he was in impeccable shape. He looked the way he wanted to look, and had been told time and time again that he was beautiful.  
  
But Peter glanced at Nathan's underwear, and slowly shook his head. "Scared," he said, his voice too flat for it to be a question.  
  
Nathan smirked at Peter, and pulled his shorts down and off, exposing his cock, which was swollen and heavy but not quite hard. He enjoyed Peter's expression of momentary weakness - the lowering of the lashes, the faint blush that spread across his cheeks, the sigh – and waited to hear Peter moan and beg to touch.  
  
Instead Peter said, "Get on your knees and suck my dick."  
  
It wasn't the dirtiest thing that Nathan had ever heard him say – by far – but the abruptness of it, the apparent lack of any feeling about it, startled Nathan a bit. Nathan was being told what to do with all the dull, perfunctory authority of a bored john talking to a five-dollar whore whom he considered to be overpriced. It wasn't like Peter at all.  
  
But the strangeness of it got Nathan hot.  
  
He approached Peter, and slowly got onto his knees on the none-too-clean kitchen rug in front of Peter, who made no move to unfasten his clothes. "Go on," Peter said, trying to maintain his distant tone, but it just couldn't hold; his voice began to quiver before he'd even half finished. "Open my zipper, pull it out, put it in your mouth. Suck it."  
  
Nathan closed his eyes briefly, shame washing over him again; how many times had he been just that imperious, that commanding to Peter? How many times had he been cruel when he knew that Peter wanted him so badly he could hardly think, how many times had he made Peter beg for it? How much did Peter love it, that he'd beg? Either the whole point of it, for Peter, was the begging, or else Peter begged even though he didn't want to... Why am I so mean to him? I love him.  
  
But Nathan wasn't being begged right now. He was being told. He shook his head lightly, then undid Peter's belt, loosening the waistband and unzipping the fly, but not taking Peter's trousers down. Nathan hadn't been told to do that. He'd been given very specific instructions.  
  
I tell you what I need, Nathan remembered.  
  
Nathan pulled Peter's cock through the flap in the front of his dark-blue boxer-briefs, and brought it to his mouth. He couldn't resist a faint, shaky moan of joy as soon as he felt the smooth skin and the blood-urged stiffness against his tongue. Nathan sucked deeply and avidly, taking Peter all the way back to the entrance of his throat, carefully holding his breath, and swallowing, knowing that it created a vacuum of almost unbearable pressure. To his credit, not only did Peter not lose it on the spot, but he even kept his vocal response to a bare, faintly hummed minimum. "Yeah," he whispered, biting his lip, sighing. "That's right. That's what you want."  
  
It was far from being all that Nathan wanted, but his mouth was too full to talk back. He concentrated instead on giving head like a five-thousand-dollar whore, slurping, licking, pressing the cockhead between his tongue and palate, occasionally looking up and meeting Peter's eyes. No matter how much Peter tried to keep his cool, he was no match for that kind of technique. Within a few moments, Peter was open-mouth sighing and circling his hips in time with the slow rise and fall of Nathan's mouth. His fingers rested lightly on the back of Nathan's neck, running up through Nathan's hair, clenching it, but gently and briefly before letting go again. Peter wasn't forcing anything, and through his haze of lust, Nathan felt annoyed and impatient. He wanted Peter to be rough with him. He reached in again, and drew out Peter's balls, running his tongue between them and up the under-ridge of Peter's cock, then enclosed the shaft in his mouth again. "Oh, yeah," Peter moaned out loud, the soles of his shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor as he stepped closer to Nathan, onto the rug.  
  
Nathan's mouth filled with a sudden salty, slippery moisture, and he drew his head back, swirling the clear, glistening fluid around the head of Peter's cock with his tongue. Then he drew away completely, and stood up, giving Peter a pointed, contemptuous look. Peter stared back, his eyes glazed and his mouth hanging open, his delicious, crookedly drooping lower lip the same bright, wet pink as the head of his cock. Nathan dove in and kissed that lip, opened Peter's mouth with his, and slid his tongue inside. Nathan grabbed Peter around the waist and yanked him in close, crushing him, then pushing him back, hands running possessively down Peter's back to grab and knead his ass, and clutching Peter against him again, demonstrating the roughness he wanted.  
  
Nathan pulled Peter's T-shirt up over his head; Peter obligingly wriggled up out of it, only willing to relinquish the kiss for the bare second it took the shirt to pass across his face. Nathan stroked up the sensitive ridges of Peter's ribs, then down to the firm curves of his stomach muscles, pushed Peter's pants down his hips until they fell around his ankles. Nathan pushed the elastic waistband of Peter's boxers down until it caught against the barrier of Peter's stiff, straining cock. Nathan yanked the shorts down over it, making the elastic snap against Peter's balls; he moaned hard into Nathan's mouth.  
  
By then, the flavor of Peter's pre-come had vanished from their kiss. Nathan let go completely, stepping back until he felt the cold bare linoleum against the soles of his feet. Peter looked even more lustfully absurd, standing there against his kitchen sink with his pants around his ankles and his hair disheveled. Nathan smiled a little, then turned and walked away, heading across to the living room, to Peter's bed. "Scared?" Nathan murmured.  
  
Peter followed a minute later, naked now, carrying a big glass of water, the bowl of wet towels, and the armload of dry towels. He set the wet towels on his nightstand, shoving textbooks aside with his wrist, and tossed two of the dry towels onto the bed. From the drawer in the nightstand, he produced the large bottle of Nathan's favorite lube that Nathan had left here, last time, and set it on the tabletop with a definitive tap.  
  
Nathan sat on the edge of the bed, one fist curled around his cock, stroking himself quickly and lightly, not rushing himself. They had time, this time. This was no quickie in someone's bathroom; they had carte blanche to do as they liked, to do what they needed to do, for as long as was necessary. He wondered how much time they could get away with. All night? Tomorrow, too? Or was that cheating?  
  
Yes, Nathan, it's cheating. It's cheating on your wife, he thought. With your baby brother.  
  
He grabbed his cock hard, and dug his fingers in, trying to hurt himself, to punish himself, but it just felt good. He'd passed the point of no return back there in the kitchen - Peter had dragged him right across the line. Again. Where the only truth that mattered was sensation and emotion, where nothing made sense but everything, where nothing was right, but everything... everything was right.  
  
Nathan got so distracted that he didn't see Peter jumping for him until it was too late, and he completely folded under Peter's tackle. Before Nathan could get his bearings, Peter had Nathan's arms pinned behind him in such a way that he couldn't move too much without an immensely painful result. Before Nathan could surrender or negotiate, Peter sharply slapped Nathan's cock, making it instantly, excruciatingly hard. "Ow! You little shit!" Nathan snapped. "That is not necessary!" It only made Peter snicker and slap him again, then laugh out loud at Nathan's helpless, animalistic moan.  
  
"Oh, poor you," Peter whispered, then released Nathan, slid over him, and, moaning, went down on Nathan's cock. The sounds of appreciation that he made had none of Nathan's subtlety; he sounded eager, hungry, and pornographically horny. As usual. Maybe even more than usual. Peter hadn't begged this time, only waited and hoped, and now here it was – the undeniable symbol of Nathan's lust, inside his mouth.  
  
Nathan smiled and relaxed into it for a moment, relishing this moment of taking back authority. He sat up on his knees, spreading his legs and sliding onto one of the dry towels (he was nothing if not a gracious guest), grasping Peter by the hair and directing him to follow. Peter gave a helpless-sounding sigh, hardly allowing contact to break even for a moment. "Who wants it, huh? Who the fuck wants it?" Nathan taunted, watching Peter scrambling to keep up, panting in his effort, but keeping his mouth open. Nathan decided not to give Peter a chance to keep up, because Peter just looked so fucking sexy when he was a little confused, his feelings a little hurt, but the urgency of the blood pounding in his groin making him stay with it, get stronger. Sacrifice pride. Learn. "Do you a fuckin' favor," he completed his own thought out loud. "That what you need?" he continued, thrusting with his hips, slowly and gently fucking Peter's mouth. "Is that what you needed all weekend? A nice, big cock in your mouth?"  
  
Peter drew his head back and gasped for breath. "That's what I've been trying to say," he said, looking at Nathan and then rolling his eyes.  
  
It irritated Nathan, having Peter answer a purely and obviously rhetorical question. It was a childish, bratty thing to do; Peter's stock in trade. "Shut up," he muttered. He grabbed Peter by the hair again, and this time he did force Peter down until half of Nathan's cock was in his mouth, and held Peter very still by the hair. By the look on his face, it was uncomfortable, but Peter couldn't speak, couldn't resist, couldn't get away. Nathan resumed thrusting, a little harder this time, then a little harder than he should have. It just felt so good; it just looked so good. Nathan's own ruthlessness pleased him. "Is that it? Is that what you're looking for?" he muttered.  
  
Peter throat abruptly seized – Nathan would feel shame later for how good that felt – and he tapped two fingers against Nathan's thigh. No matter how ruthless he was, Nathan had to abide by certain rules; he let Peter go. It happened so rarely. Peter could always take it, whatever "it" was. They'd agreed a long time ago that if it went too far, they could tap out, since they'd both done enough sport-wrestling to notice and respond to the signal without even having to think about it. Nathan couldn't remember the last time that Peter had made him stop doing anything – he'd been willing to force his gag reflex before – and Nathan only stopped Peter when what he was doing would leave a mark. He would never tell Peter to stop just because something was unbearably painful. Peter usually didn't, either. It must have been pretty serious.  
  
As soon as his mouth was free, Peter broke into brief, violent coughing, and tears streaked over his bright red face. "Fuck you," he hissed.  
  
Nathan leaned in to look at Peter more closely, unable to hide his concern, an apology hovering on his lips. With startling strength, Peter knocked Nathan the rest of the way over, his head avoiding the sharp corner of the nightstand byinches. Peter leaned over Nathan, and spit at him, a froth of saliva landing on Nathan's chest. Nathan saw red, and felt almost dizzy from the overwhelming combination of anger and lust. "Fuck you," Nathan countered, then, his growling voice descending softly into a purr, "ahhhhh... fuck you..." as Peter rubbed the spit into Nathan's nipples, wetting them, rolling them tightly between his fingertips, putting his lips to them, his tongue, moistening them even more. Lightly biting them, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make them spring up hard and rigid and terrifically sensitive. Just enough to hurt a little.  
  
As much as he loved it, Nathan didn't want to take any chances; there'd be no way he could hide (or explain) bruised nipples. He grabbed Peter roughly by the hair and yanked Peter's face back toward his cock. Instead of opening his mouth and sucking, like a good boy, Peter spit on him again, saliva dripping down Nathan's cock and pooling against his balls. Fresh tears ran down Peter's furious, defiant face, his dilated eyes appearing far more green than brown, as if the tears were washing his irises, revealing the strange, opalescent jade underneath. It was just a trick of the light, the angle of his head, but so beautiful.  
  
Still, not beautiful enough to relieve Nathan's anger. "Oh, it's like that, is it, tough guy?" Nathan whispered, pulling Peter's hair hard, hard enough to make him shout in protest, his voice loud and desperate enough to make Nathan reflexively let go. But Nathan grabbed Peter's shoulders and wrestled Peter down to the surface of the bed, fingers digging deeply into Peter's straining flesh. He locked his knee across Peter's thighs, trapping him in place. Peter struggled hard, but couldn't resist simple, superior physical strength. He was wiry and tougher than he looked, but the months of inadequate nutrition had taken their toll. He surrendered, relaxing, submitting underneath Nathan; when Nathan took his hands away to run them over Peter's body, the indentations left by his fingers stood out in bright pink welts on the pale skin. He could always mark Peter; there was no one Peter had to hide from.  
  
Peter lay still, but trembling, eyes closed and his face turned away, sucking on his pinky finger. His cheeks were wet and red and blotchy. He looked devastated, too broken even to be afraid. Nathan wished that he could think of something, anything to say. A comfort or a challenge, or an explanation of himself. But there was no way that words would convey even a fraction of all the things he felt. Instead, Nathan kissed Peter's cheek, gently licking the salt trails of his tears. Peter cringed away, but his hips rose eagerly against Nathan's thigh, pressing his moist cock, exuding a slippery trail of fresh pre-come, against Nathan's belly.  
  
Nathan felt the sudden urge to backhand Peter to make him stop crying, stop making Nathan feel like an evil, heartless monster ravishing a child, and get into it. But of course Peter was already into it, had been for a long time, far longer than Nathan had been. Peter had been having sex, since they got in the car at the parents' house, and had just been waiting for them to take their clothes off, waiting for Nathan to catch up. God knew... for years, he'd been into it, and willing to follow wherever Nathan led, willing to show Nathan the way, so reckless and brave and trusting and stubborn. So faithful, always believing in the truth of this, believing enough for the both of them.  
  
Sweet, dirty little boy, my adorable pervert, my beautiful, totally and forever sex slave.  
  
He had to do something. He just couldn't bring himself to hit Peter in the face, and Peter obviously didn't want to be kissed again. Instead, he turned Peter over and held him face-down against the bed, and struck Peter's behind hard, chuckling as he watched the flesh quiver and redden; he spanked the other cheek, then the first one, harder. Peter moaned and clenched the pillow in his fists until his knuckles turned white. Nathan gripped the reddened flesh of Peter's buttock, digging his fingers in deep, then slapping again, watching the welts turn a darker red.  
  
Peter gave a shaky whisper: "Y-yeah-h-h..."  
  
Nathan straddled Peter's thighs, and hastily grabbed the lube, pouring out a big puddle of the clear liquid into his palm. It was enough to generously slick up his whole hand, and leave the fingers of the other hand slippery, too. "You're so bad," Nathan murmured. "What am I gonna do with you? I can't spank you; you like that too much." He edged Peter's legs apart with his knee, and plunged two fingers deep into Peter's asshole. Peter grunted sharply, muffled by the bedclothes. The tension along the back of his neck, his shoulders, showed Nathan that Peter was biting down hard on the blankets. But it was easy to penetrate him; it couldn't possibly have hurt, not with all that lube. Peter wasn't brand-new anymore. He'd had his ass fucked dozens of times. But not very recently... because Peter didn't let anyone else but Nathan fuck him, and Nathan hadn't in months... too long.  
  
Nathan sighed, pulling his fingers out, jerking on his own dick with the lightly-lubed fingers of his left hand. He slid three right-hand fingers into Peter, slowly spreading the fingers apart. Not too much; just enough. Peter's whole body twitched, and he opened his legs wide, arching up slightly onto his knees, presenting himself, then bucking back hard against Nathan's hand. Peter's breath came in urgent, hyperventilating gasps.  
  
"You like that, too?" Nathan asked, taking his hand off his dick, holding Peter's hip instead, thrusting his fingers into Peter, his forearm muscles rippling, using the muscles of his biceps and shoulders to intensify the motion. "Oh, what am I gonna do with you, bad boy?" He added another finger, and... Peter was nearly singing.  
  
"Please... please... please..."  
  
Nathan felt a white-hot, urgent need crackling through his body, knowing that if he didn't change direction now, he'd end up elbow-deep inside Peter and Peter would never tell him no. Nathan withdrew his fingers, wiping them off on the dry towel underneath them, and grabbed Peter's hip, smoothly turning him face-up. Peter's eyes stayed closed, but his hands blindly felt for Nathan, stroking Nathan's chest and his side, finding Nathan's penis and holding onto it, as if it would steady him.  
  
"Come on," said Nathan, kissing the florid bruises on Peter's shoulders, "it's time for you to get fucked. Come on." He lay on his back, holding Peter's hip and the opposite thigh, bringing him closer, pulling him on top. Peter moved up, opening his legs, bracing himself with his knees spread across Nathan's hips, and angled himself down, sliding himself onto Nathan's cock, moaning terribly as it went deep inside him.  
  
Nathan arched up, too, slamming them together, and Peter's moan became a throaty, desperate cry. "Oh, God... ohhhhh...!" He sounded like he was dying, but his tight little body immediately began posting up and down, swiftly riding Nathan's cock. Nathan answered his moans, rising so far off the bed that only the sides of his ankles and his shoulder blades still had contact with the surface, savagely meeting Peter's thrusts. Not only was Nathan balls-deep inside, the combination of their movements created a sharp, slamming effect. It had to be hurting Peter beyond imagination, but Peter was doing it – Peter was fucking himself hard, using Nathan's cock to stab himself, Nathan's matching thrusts plunging in further. Working together to fuck Peter as deeply as physically possible.  
  
Without warning, Peter stopped, and just hung there, twitching, Nathan's cock still buried inside, and his mouth closed over his staggered moans. At first, Nathan thought Peter was coming, but instead, the moans slowly, but definitively, became sobs – hard, closed-mouth, convulsive sobs. Still more tears ran from his eyes. Nathan watched this transformation, feeling somewhat impatient, sheer lust making him distant from this emotional display. We're supposed to be fucking – what the hell are you crying about? he thought. We don't have time for this. I'm trying to get you off. What's the matter now?  
  
He held Peter still and thrust up into him a few times, but Peter kept sobbing. Nathan sat up, raising his knees, holding Peter steady, cupping Peter's back in his arms. Peter stopped crying as soon as Nathan held him, then threw back his head and gave a heavy sigh. "I love you," he said thickly.  
  
Nathan felt like a wave had crashed over his head, his heart clenching hard inside his chest. He loves me. The stupid kid loves me. Oh, God, and I love him too; we're both stupid and fucked up and this is impossible. No matter how hard or how deep I fuck you, you fuck me where no one else can touch, and leave me raw inside. It was all he could do not to start crying himself. He kissed Peter on the cheeks, then on the lips, his mouth closed, gentle, undemanding, affectionate but clearly sensual. Now, Peter kissed back gratefully, articulating his kisses so that Nathan could hear every one. Finally Peter turned away, breathing hard. When he tried to angle his body back, but couldn't because of the cock inside him, he flinched. "Hurts?" Nathan murmured, caressing the small of Peter's back, leaning back a little bit to give Peter a better range of movement.  
  
"I deserve it." Peter slid his lower legs forward, so that he now rested in the cradle of Nathan's thighs. His body moved again slowly, more back-and-forth than straight up-and-down, easier now that he had Nathan supporting his back. He was almost too breathless to speak, his words forced out between desperate gasps. "I want it." He struggled to smile, but, distorted through lust and pain, it was more of a snarl. "I've been good."  
  
Nathan leaned back, matching Peter's strokes, his eyes rolling to the ceiling and then clenching shut as he grasped the meaning of Peter's words – he didn't feel this pain as punishment; it was his reward. Nathan shuddered, then moaned aloud, shaking his head in understanding and dismay; he was the just the same. But only with Peter; only for Peter.  
  
"You haven't been good." Nathan sat up more, and kissed him again, and then some more. "You've been bad; you've been very bad. You make me hurt you. Are you a brat just so you can... make me hurt you..." Holding Peter. Letting Peter drive, letting Peter take what he wanted. Faster. "I don't want to hurt you... but oh, I know how you want it..." Matching him, their hips moving in sync with their rapid, frantic breathing. "God... but I do want to hurt you... it just feels so good... gets you off so hard..."  
  
They fucked faster still, Peter's ass slapping against Nathan's thighs, their bodies moving away and together, their angled bodies mirroring each other, Peter's hands on the bed and Nathan's hands on Peter's back, holding him, supporting him, even though Peter didn't need the support. He was strong enough for this, somehow. And then, for just a second, Peter's body went limp and his eyes rolled back; he twitched, blinked his eyes back into alignment, and resumed his ride, even harder than before. It looked like nothing so much as Peter nodding off to sleep. When Nathan realized how unlikely that was, he had to acknowledge that Peter had just lost consciousness for a moment, and that he'd just fucked Peter to the point of passing out.  
  
That was it for him.  
  
Nathan squeezed Peter tightly against him, quaking hard. An unbelievable orgasm swept through him from the top of his head to his fingertips and toes and every part in between, rising, mounting in intensity, staggering him. He let Peter go and flung himself back to the surface of the bed, groaning insensibly, "No... no... oh God please, oh God please don't end, please..." Thirty seconds of sublime, humbling, thigh-quivering bliss, absolutely perfect, a high like flying into space, zooming above the clouds; he felt almost like passing out himself, and like crying when he descended to earth, grasping helplessly at nothing, trying to hang onto something to keep him there.  
  
But, of course, it had to end sometime. His body went limp, and he descended sadly to the ordinary world.  
  
He hadn't come that hard since he was a teenager, with the famous five-thousand-dollar-a-night prostitute – the one who had figured out just by looking at him that he might want something up his ass while he got his dick sucked. Nathan usually came pretty hard with Peter, but now that Nathan wasn't a kid anymore, he'd given up on ever again having an orgasm so blindingly wonderful that the knowledge that the climax would end was grief itself.  
  
But if anyone could bring him back there, it was Peter.  
  
Peter disentangled himself from Nathan and got up, standing for a moment beside the bed, breathing hard with his hand to his forehead, Nathan's semen glistening on the backs of his thighs. Nathan held out one hand to him, still not able to speak yet; the other hand carefully, but energetically, stroking his painfully sensitive cock, trying to keep it hard. Peter narrowed his eyes at Nathan a bit, as if to say, Aren't you done yet? But he couldn't keep the smile off his face entirely.  
  
He rested one foot on the bed, grabbed one of the damp towels, and wiped his behind and his thighs, showing off. Nathan relaxed his arm, his eyes drawn like a magnet to the sight – the well-fucked asshole, low-hanging balls, and the cock so hard it was dark-red and standing up against Peter's stomach. He knew Nathan loved to see what he'd done; sometimes the sight was enough to keep Nathan going. Peter put on a little show, lightly stroking his cock, slipping a finger into his moist and swollen hole. "Ow," he whispered, fluttering his eyelashes and pouting. "Ooh. You were just there. Hurting me... inside."  
  
Nathan broke into a grin. "I wasn't hurting you, faker."  
  
The show was over all too soon. "Yeah, you were," Peter replied sulkily. "You and your big Italian dick." He lowered his foot to the floor, and drank for a long time from the glass of water on the nightstand. He handed the glass to the thirsty and grateful Nathan while he opened the nightstand's little side drawer again. He brought out a Ricola throat drop, unwrapped the wax paper wrapper, and put it into his mouth, the scent of strange herbs and mints suddenly wafting through the room.  
  
"You've got a big Italian dick, too," Nathan murmured, setting the glass down with a little water left in the bottom. Peter chuckled, and drained the glass. "Hey... I'm sorry I throat-fucked you..."  
  
"Tsk!... You don't even know what I'm doing," Peter replied, the herbal lozenge clacking against his teeth. He spit the cough drop back into the wrapper, dropped it into the wastebasket, then returned to bed. Nathan opened his arms and embraced him, kissing his ears, but Peter edged away from the kisses again. Instead, he slid his hands under Nathan's knees, and bent them upward toward his shoulders, showing him off. Peter gave Nathan's vitals a good look, licking his lips. Nathan wished that his own cock was as hard as Peter's; Peter's was gorgeous, thick and rigid and twitching, the head still gleaming with fresh seminal fluid. Peter let one of Nathan's legs go, and Nathan obligingly kept his knee raised, wondering what, exactly, Peter was doing. Willing to go along with it, whatever it was.  
  
Apparently, he was producing a generous mouthful of saliva, which he spit into his palm, and rubbed lightly onto his cock, his fingers moving up and down on the shaft. Coating the surface, not rubbing it in. Not jacking off with it. With his free hand, Peter prodded the spit-wet head of his cock between Nathan's buttocks, slipping along until he made contact with Nathan's asshole, and then sharply – oh so sharply – thrusting his way inside.  
  
Nathan screamed, because they were alone, and he could, and the mint in the cough drop had gotten into Peter's saliva and then onto his cock and now it was inside Nathan, tingling, stretching him, and he wasn't even close to ready and it –  
  
"Hurts?" Peter hissed, his breath shaking out in a bitter laugh. "Good, 'cause I love to hurt you."  
  
"Fuck... yeah it hurts!" Nathan cried out. "My God, Pete!... oh!..."  
  
That kind of pain... that kind of helpless but consensual submission... every detail reminded him so much of Nathan's first time, the way he had described it to Peter, in a breathless whisper, years ago, back when Peter was still new to fucking. Just spit, too horny to be careful and too desperate to be nice, because we need it right now – and a trace of toothpaste and mint mouthwash still in his mouth – oh God, burning like fire but oh yes, oh yes. But Peter had never done it before now. It was stupid and dangerous and desperate and oh so perfect, that terrible culmination of desire for something he didn't even want to acknowledge. Like Peter. Like having a cock in his ass in the first place. Like this. Like embracing the fear and the hurt, and having to recognize it, and accept it as part of him, or risk losing a part of himself forever. But oh, so dangerous, the sweetly stinging, throbbing pain, the ravenous desire for more.  
  
We can't do this. And I'll die if we stop.  
  
Peter only thrust into him a few times, each stroke dragging ragged cries from Nathan's lungs, then stopped as soon as he'd gotten his cock all the way inside. He gently wiped the sweat on Nathan's forehead with the back of his hand. "Do you want to get fucked," he asked, "or do you want to swallow my come?"  
  
Nathan said shakily, "S-s-swallow, swallow, please."  
  
"You don't want me to rip up your ass?" Peter gave him another solid thrust. "Dry and rough? I'll do it. I'll fuck you right up."  
  
"Peter, please! Oh – oh, please. Don't." Nathan squeezed his eyes shut, and felt Peter's fingers gently brushing his temple. The side of his face was cool and wet, his eyes were burning; it took him a moment to understand that he was weeping. It wasn't entirely from the pain, but the tears wouldn't have happened without it. Peter always understood this ritual of submission and confession so much better than Nathan ever could. Nathan's authority was and always had been an illusion. "I promise to be nice. I promise to be nice from now on – just please, don't."  
  
"Admit that you'd love it." Peter circled his hips, bringing his damp hand to his lips, tasting the tears.  
  
"I ahhh – I admit it. You know I'd love it. I want you to fuck me till I can't move... Oh... oh, baby, you fuck so good, so good..." Nathan rambled dizzily, feverishly masturbating himself, convinced that he could come again if he just didn't stop.  
  
Peter pulled out with painstaking slowness, and wiped himself off again, tossing the towel over his shoulder onto the floor. He held his cock close to Nathan's mouth, and jerked off hard and fast, within seconds ejaculating copiously onto Nathan's face. Nathan didn't dare keep his eyes open, but the one tiny glimpse of the smile on Peter's face was enough to make his heart skip, then send his pulse surging into his groin. Nathan opened his mouth, but Peter didn't really bother to aim there, only a few, precious, stray jets landing on Nathan's tongue. At the taste of come, at the feel of the warm jets hitting his face, Nathan climaxed again, but compared to his last orgasm, this one was just an afterthought.  
  
Peter moaned the same short "Ah" over and over again, like a skipping record. When his voice finally changed to a soft gasp of completion, Nathan closed his mouth and swallowed, opening his eyes. Peter stared back at him with his eyebrows raised. "Wow," he sighed, grinning, tracing his finger through the semen dripping down Nathan's face, "I didn't think I had it in me."  
  
Nathan smiled at him. "I always knew."  
  
Peter picked up a fresh damp towel, and handed it to Nathan. "Wipe your face, slut; you look disgusting," he said lovingly. His tough, disinterested demeanor was fading rapidly.  
  
Nathan shook his head, rubbing his cheeks with his fingers and then sucking them clean. "Nooo... no, it's good for the skin. Since you shot it on my face instead of in my mouth, like you told me you were going to..."  
  
"I wanted to see it," Peter whispered. "I wanted to watch. To see you take it. Here, don't eat it all, you nasty sicko." He broke off, kissing Nathan's mouth, rubbing his cheeks against Nathan's cheeks, making his own face a sticky mess. He pulled back and laughed, basking in the sound of his laughter and Nathan's together. And how long had it been since they'd shared a laugh? Peter wrote something Nathan couldn't decipher with the spunk on Nathan's belly, then sealed it with a kiss.  
  
They wiped each other clean with the now-cold damp towels. Lying side by side, they wrapped their arms around each other, clinging tight, legs entwined, faces close enough to kiss, stroking each other's backs, chests, buttocks. Nathan asked, running his fingers along the bumpy ridges of Peter's spine, "Are you still mad?"  
  
Peter sleepily replied, "About what?"  
  
Nathan laughed, and then Peter laughed. "I'm sorry I hit you," Peter said comfortably, snuggling even closer. "It just ... wasn't the right setting for me to fuck you hard in the ass and then gag you with my dick... I'm sure you understand."  
  
"How's it look?" Nathan asked, touching the tender spot on his jaw.  
  
Peter examined it carefully, touching the jawbone, stretching the skin a little to test its elasticity and check for swelling. "It's fine," he said. "You shouldn't have a bruise or anything."  
  
"See? I told you jizz was good for the skin." Nathan stretched lazily, arching his whole body against Peter's, from neck to feet, then lay still but for his fingers tracing circles at the base of Peter's spine. "We shouldn't fuck so hard," Nathan murmured.  
  
Peter kissed him some more. "I'm okay," he said. "We can play nice next time. You didn't do any damage, I don't think."  
  
"I think you did," said Nathan, half-joking. He resolved that the next time he stretched, he'd do it more slowly and carefully.  
  
"Did I?" Peter rolled his eyes innocently. He didn't seem overly concerned. "You should be more nice to me, then."  
  
"I promise I'll try," Nathan said, all sincerity.  
  
"For next time?" Peter quirked a drowsy version of his best lopsided smile.  
  
"Yeah," Nathan whispered, kissing the smile, "next time."  
  
They both closed their eyes, and within seconds, fell asleep.  
  
  
_SUNDAY._  
  
Angela Petrelli was surprised to see both of her sons present for Sunday brunch.  
  
Nathan and Heidi, without the kids, arrived on time and in subdued good spirits. More than anything, they looked like they hadn't gotten enough sleep, but not with the kind of lingering intimacy that meant that they'd been up all night having sex. But not fighting, either; just not as cozy as usual. More like the delicate forgiveness stage.  
  
But Peter also showed up, about fifteen minutes afterward, just as they had started eating. Angela actually got out of her seat to hug and kiss him. "Peter! What a surprise!" she said. "I didn't think we'd see you."  
  
"Well," Peter confessed with a grin, "I still don't have any food at home."  
  
"Nice to see you, Peter," said Heidi, staring at him oddly, with a hint of a smile on her face. "How are you doing?"  
  
"I'm really hungry," he said, piling a plate with toast and scrambled eggs. "I went to sleep after we got back from the zoo, and I slept straight through to this morning. So I haven't eaten since lunch yesterday."  
  
"Oh, you went to the zoo?" Angela asked. "That must have been nice."  
  
"Yeah, the monkeys were really great," Peter replied.  
  
"So are you two on good terms now?" Angela said pointedly, looking at both of them.  
  
"Yeah, we worked it out," Peter said with a shrug.  
  
Heidi and Angela both stared at Nathan then, and Nathan shrugged too, sipping his coffee. "We apologized," Nathan said. "We fought a little more first, but... it's all right, ladies. I think Peter just needs to eat more regularly."  
  
"No arguments here," Peter agreed.  
  
"I see," said Angela with a distracted smile.  
  
They ate in silence for several minutes. After Peter had finished his plate, he said hesitantly, "Sorry. I guess I was a lot more stressed out than I thought I was."  
  
"That's all right, Peter," Angela replied.  
  
"Maybe next year, I'll... do better..." Peter gave a sheepish grin. "If I'm still welcome."  
  
"You're always welcome, Peter."  
  
Angela reached over and squeezed Peter's forearm, the contact reinforcing her words. Peter gazed lovingly at her, then filled his plate a second time. He looked over at Heidi and smiled at her, too, and she sighed, smiling back. "Wanna come over and babysit for extra cash?" she asked, with a laugh in her voice. "You could try out some of your nursing skills on some very uncooperative patients."  
  
Peter laughed too. "Totally," he said. "I mean, I wish I could. I have to actually go to work tonight. I've got to lay down some overtime to cover, y'know, Christmas." He looked over at Nathan, who gazed at him steadily, but without intensity. "Maybe once I'm out of school, things will calm down a little bit. And then... I'd be happy to sit for the kids any time."  
  
"I'll send you home with with leftovers," Angela said matter-of-factly. "We don't want you starving to death."  
  
After the meal, Peter was helping in the kitchen, and Nathan approached him, plucking at Peter's shirt sleeve. "Got a minute?" he asked, and Peter nodded and set down the dirty dish in his hand.  
  
Outside in the courtyard, Nathan put out his hand; Peter grasped Nathan's thumb, the way he did when he was too small to actually hold Nathan's whole hand. "You good today?" Nathan asked softly.  
  
"I'm great today," Peter replied. "You?"  
  
"My tits are a little swollen," Nathan said under his breath. His mouth twitched, resisting a smile.  
  
"How's your ass?" inquired Peter, in the same tiny, parenthetical voice, fainter than a whisper, that only they could hear, and that only because they were touching.  
  
"Sore," said Nathan. "Feels good. Nice to have something to remember it by."  
  
Peter smiled enough for both of them. "No blood or anything?"  
  
"Just a little," Nathan replied matter-of-factly. "Yesterday, after I woke up. I let you sleep; you're like a log. On a morphine drip." He couldn't resist smiling back at Peter. "It's nothing. I'm fine. But... don't ever do that again. It's really dangerous."  
  
"What if we're stranded on a desert island, and there's no lube?"  
  
"Pray for coconut oil." Nathan glanced back through the glass doors, to the inside of the house. "I gotta go. Be careful, okay?" He spoke in a normal tone now.  
  
Peter still smiled, too, but his eyes became sad. "You too, huh?" he said. "I care about you too. Love you."  
  
"Love you too, Pete." Nathan gently stroked Peter's palm with his fingers. "And... thank you."  
  
"Any time," Peter whispered. "I'm yours."  
  
They hugged each other, finishing with brotherly pats on the back, then kissed each other on both cheeks.  
  
"Happy holidays," Peter said, letting go. 

**Author's Note:**

> [original end notes] My inspirations: 
> 
> • "Ain't that Peculiar" by Marvin Gaye  
• Our Inner Ape by Frans deWaal   
• Wikipedia for help with Thanksgiving Day football games (the Indianapolis Colts won that year, btw), the colobus monkeys at the Central Park Zoo, the New York Coalition for the Homeless, and heck, almost everything  
• Heroes Wiki for everything else   
• all that wonderfully dirty, wonderfully clever smutfic I've been lucky enough to read, and which showed me that there don't really need to be any limits  
• a wonderful little show called Heroes, created by Tim Kring and a wildly talented group of filmmakers, especially my OTP BFFs, Milo Ventimiglia and Adrian Pasdar - long may they love
> 
> Oddly enough, on the day I finished the final draft, I randomly found a stuffed toy colobus monkey - you know, the kind of stuffie monkeys that have velcro on its paws, so you can hang it from things or carry it around your neck. I took it as a sign. ^_^


End file.
